


The Blessed

by CaptainCinderBella



Category: Red Queen Series - Victoria Aveyard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Animal Sacrifice, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape, Blood and Violence, F/F, F/M, Inaccurate depiction of Christianity, Love Triangle, M/M, More like viking inspired fantasy, POV Alternating, Religious Persecution, Slavery, Tagged Underage because some characters are 16, That age is considered adult in this setting however, Third Person POV, Viking Era, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCinderBella/pseuds/CaptainCinderBella
Summary: Mare is thrall born, which makes her the property of the jarl. When her best friend Kiúli’s owner wants to sell him as a ship slave, Mare is determined to steal enough coins to buy his freedom. In doing so, she meets Kal.His intervention brings Mare to Arkehall to serve the royal family’s household. But when the ancient power of seiðr is awakened inside her, her life changes overnight.A retelling of the Red Queen in a setting inspired by the Scandinavian viking age, 700-1000 a.d.
Relationships: Elane Haven/Evangeline Samos, Mare Barrow/Maven Calore, Mare Barrow/Tiberias "Cal" Calore VII, Maven Calore/Thomas
Comments: 52
Kudos: 13





	1. Three silver, one gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Thrall._ A person who is enslaved by birth or by capture. A thrall is the lowest of the social castes in the north, above which stands free men and women and at the very top of societal hierarchy, nobles. Thralls have no protection from the law, and are considered their master’s property, to do with as they wish. If you harm or kill another’s thrall, you have to compensate the owner economically. If you harm or kill your own thrall, there is no punishment.

Her name was Mare. In some foreign language it meant ‘sea’, she had been told by her father, the man whose brown skin and black hair had given color to hers.

Her mother, the famously beautiful Runa, was a free woman, but her father was a thrall. Alas, it was her and her sibling’s lot to be thralls, too. It was always a mystery to Mare how her mother, being the daughter and later sister to a jarl, would choose to live in poverty with her father. They were an odd family in many ways, half free, half owned, and still somehow considered blessed because of their many strong sons. Maybe her mother at some point had hoped her father the Jarl would take pity on her and forgive her for choosing a thrall and a former Christian above her own family’s honor. But her father never did. Nor did her brother, the new jarl. Their family’s dishonor was too great for his forgiveness.

Even if the kinship with Jarl Hákon offered some peripheral protection from those who would otherwise be happy to abuse them in the crudest ways, Mare’s little sister Gísla knew better than to stray far from the relative safety of the jarl’s hall.

At age twelve, all of their brothers had, in turn, been sold off to farmers in the vicinity. Bredi, the tallest and oldest of her brothers, had told her he was well fed, his strength and diligence well rewarded. Same with Trausti, who worked at the neighbour farm. Siggeir was the latest to be sold. Mare had cried many bitter tears as her closest brother walked to the auction, and when it was clear he was going far away to northern Norta, she had broken down and not eaten for a day. 

Gísla was a different story. Mare’s little sister was small, her hair red like their mother’s, and her skin fair like other Nortans. Her skill at the loam as well as needle and thread was prized by the jarl’s wife and daughters. And so Gísla’s future was secured.

Which left Mare. Too small to be considered a good working thrall for a farm, and not skilled in any craft, she was all too aware that her security and life hung on a fraying thread. She was another mouth to feed, after all, and a thrall that did not pull their own weight was worth as much as a lame horse. Not even Frey would accept such a useless gift at the spring blodt.

What was worse, Mare was a thief. She knew the exact day it had begun. She had been about ten summers old, and grabbed a slice of bread off the table when nobody was watching. It had bits of dried apple in it. The moment she had escaped the hall, an intoxicating feeling of empowerment had risen inside her. She was property of the jarl but she had tricked him and his family and taken something for  _ herself _ . The bread tasted sweeter than anything she had tasted before. 

After that she had continued to steal. No one in their little shack of a house ever mentioned it. If it became known, Mare dared not think about what kind of punishment she’d be dealt. Her back and legs were littered with white marks from whippings, but those had all been for small failures, like spilled milk or losing a piglet. A thrall caught for theft would not suffer the common humiliation and recomense punishment of free men and women. Her punishment would be days of rape and torture, followed by a gruesome death. 

But still she kept stealing. The hatred in her belly for the people who punished her and her siblings simply for their father’s blood would not be quelled. Stealing was the only way she could put the simmering rage to rest, if only for a time.

This day, a miserably cold autumn day when the wind howled in chilling gusts, Mare walked to the fishing bay to find Kiúli, her one and only friend. He was born thrall like her, but had had the good luck of being owned by a kind and skilled fisherman. Kiúli had proven his worth, being a fast swimmer and able to hold his breath for longer than anyone else. His back had fewer whipping scars than Mare’s, but she wasn’t jealous of his better fortune. She had always felt the need to protect him, ever since he was a scrawny, sandy-haired boy appearing on their family’s doorstep, mere hours before succumbing to starvation. 

The boy who now waved at her from the nets he was mending was far from that. While not as bulky as her brothers, at age sixteen, Kiúli’s shoulders had a proud set and his green eyes spoke of ambition far above that of a normal thrall. 

“Well, if it isn’t the pig girl,” he greeted teasingly. “How did you get off work so early?”

Mare shrugged. “I’m gonna gather reeds.”

“Liar. You’ve sneaked off again.”

“Where’s your master?”

Kiúli’s expression fell. “At his home. He’s down with a fever… it’s bad. I offered three fine cods to Oden this morning.”

Mare felt a lump growing in her throat. A thrall sacrificing for his master’s health was somehow both moving, and deeply wrong at the same time. “I hope he makes it. I’ll pray too.”

“Whatever good it will do. I doubt the gods care much what we think.”

The fire in Mare’s belly sparked to life again at that. “I think they do,” she said defiantly. “I know they do. The gods are not the ones who decide who is free and not. Man makes that choice.” She quieted as he looked at her with fear, looking over his shoulder once to make sure no one heard her.

“You… you should probably get those reeds. If that’s really why you’re here.”

It wasn’t, but she might as well get a bundle of reeds, the kind that was used as straw, while she was here. At least then she had something to show for her little outing, and the housekeeper might not beat her.

When Mare returned to the main yard, carrying a thick bundle of reed on her back, the jarl’s housekeeper Larke looked at her with narrow slits for eyes. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mare the always wayward thrall,” she spat and seemed to consider a moment before smiling cruelly. “Go clean the pig stall.”

Mare forced herself not to groan. It was the filthiest, smelliest work imaginable and she would be forced to bathe in the cold water of the bay to clean herself and her clothes. Her clothes would then have to dry on her body, as she had nothing else to wear. But, as always, she had no choice but to get on with it. At least the pigs were better company then most of the people in the jarl’s hall.

When the work was done and fresh reed straw spread out for the filth-loving animals, Mare trudged back to the bay. She had taken off her single pair of shoes before entering the pig stall, so now she was barefoot and the water stung her skin like needles as she stepped, fully clothed, into it . Taking one deep breath, she forced herself into and under the water.

Teeth clattering, she emerged once, and then dipped her head once more to rinse her hair properly. She grabbed a bundle of reeds and balled them up, using them to scrub her hands and feet, neck and face. When she was done, her hands and feet were deathly pale from the cold. She began walking with her head bent and arms wrapped around herself and almost didn’t see Kiúli where he sat on a grassy bank, looking emptily out over the ocean.

“H-h-hey,” she stuttered through her shivering. “W-wh-attt-s hap-p-ened?”

“My master died,” he replied, looking forlorn. “They say they’ll sell me to a ship merchant.”

Mare swallowed. Ship thralls died like rats. They were given poor rations and were easily replaced when they died. “Why would they do that?”

Kiúli shrugged. “There’s a merchant waiting. It’s the fastest way to get rid of me I suppose.”

“How much?” Mare asked. “How much will they sell you for?”

“Three silver.”

“I’ll get three silver. Then mother can buy you instead.”

He looked at her with disbelief. “Mare. You can’t get three silver. That’s what a jarl’s hirdman earns in a year, there is no way…”

She turned and stalked away before he could continue his protest. She didn’t even feel how cold and wet her clothes were anymore.The ferocious protectiveness she felt towards Kiúli was only matched by her anger, shooting like lightning through her body, warming her with its unforgiving power. Kiúli was a good fisherman. One of the best. He did not deserve to die, bruised and breathless with his teeth falling out, and get thrown overboard in some foreign water.

Mare knew better than to try her thieving skills in the jarl’s great hall. She’d have better luck in the alehouse, a place frequented by travelers and traders, much less likely to recognize her. Their village was nothing in comparison with Arkehall, but it was still a place of many faces and enough commerce to generate coin for the jarl’s treasure chests.

Here, in the part known as the ‘stilts’ because of the many polehouses, Mare had her main hunting grounds. Normally, she’d steal food; some dried meat, bread or grain. Stealing three silver coins was an ambition far above that. 

As she approached the alehouse she noted with approval that it was well crowded and loud, a sign that mead and ale already filled the bellies of its occupants. She remained outside, approaching those who were distracted or too drunk, and returning to the shadows once her deed was done. As the night went on, she had to her own astonishment managed to pickpocket two silvers. One came from a tradesman believing himself lucky as she approached, but quickly passing out from too much drink. It had been an easy mark. The second coin she had taken from the purse of a foreigner, and as he began howling in anger about the missing coin, accusing the serving girl of the theft, the owner ordered his two brawny guards to dispose of the man. 

Mare’s heart beat furiously in excitement as she watched the entrance from the shadows. She studied each person leaving, making an estimation of their level of drunkenness and their familiarity with the surroundings. Eventually, a tall young man with fair skin and fine clothing stepped out, looking around the dark village as if he didn’t quite know his way. In the dim backlight from the alehouse’s door she noted a chiseled face and hair black as raven feathers. His step swayed a little from the drink. She smiled, and followed.

As her prey turned a corner, Mare stumbled out and into him, quickly excusing herself and turning her head away, but not before shooting her hand out and into his purse. Immediately, a strong hand closed around her wrist.

“Thief,” he said, but didn’t sound angry. Surely he was looking forward to what he would do to her. Rape her probably. And take her other two coins.

Mare’s belly turned to ice, fear propelling her mind into maddening carelessness. She looked up at him, and shrugged. “Obviously.”

“Why do you steal?” he asked, looking her over but not with the predatory gaze she was used to from men.

For some inexplicable reason, she found she wanted to tell him the truth. His expression remained open as she told him of Kiúli and her family. Of why she felt stealing was the only thing that made her feel powerful.

The night was dark, they could hardly see each other’s faces. But still she felt as if he saw her clearer than anyone ever had.

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

She swallowed. If she didn’t tell him, she might get away with what she had done. Still, something in her desperately wanted him to know. Maybe if one single person knew her name and her story, all of her wasn’t lost.

“Mare.”

“I’m Kal.”

“Oh- okay…” She was wholly uncertain of his intention by now. 

Something cold and smooth was pressed against her palm. A silver coin.

“Now you have enough to save your friend,” he said. “Go home, and promise you won’t steal again.”

Maybe. “I promise.”

He left and she stood alone in the darkness, wondering if she had just met a god. She had heard of gods taking human form to help those they favored, or punish those they disliked. It would seem the strange young man was just like a god from one of those tales. Without offering any reason, he had saved Kiúli’s life and spared hers.

Mare walked home through the night, squeezing the three silver coins tight in her hand.

***

“Please, brother.”

Her mother’s voice was pleading and soft, submissive in a way that made Mare feel sick to the bone. Runa kneeled before her brother, Jarl Hákon Lageson, begging him to not punish her family.

Of course things had gone wrong. Mare had been an idiot, as usual. In presenting three silvers, a fortune by the standard of their family, accusations of theft had rained down on them as quickly as carrion birds came to a battle field. Free men and women of the village were all too happy to claim having lost the coin, regardless if it were true or not. 

Mare stood at the back of the hall next to her father and Gísla as their mother begged for her brother to judge in their favor. Mare had found the coins in the river, mother had said. Probably left there by a traveler a long time ago, meant to be found by her daughter by the grace of the gods. It was exactly the story Mare had told the night before, and although she was sure her mother didn’t believe a word of it, she could at least swear in truth today.

Hákon looked down at his kneeling sister with disgust, his red-bearded face flushed from too much mead and a perpetually foul temper. Beside him, on another high backed seat, was Siv, his wife, and on her side stood their two daughters, twelve and fourteen. Mare glared at the young women with envy and hatred. They were cousins but no one would ever call them such, all because their father’s sister had loved a Christian thrall, and given up her title to be with him. 

With a booming voice, the jarl spoke, “Is there anyone in here who can vouch for this woman’s words?” Silence. “Anyone?”

To Mare’s chock and dread, Gísla stepped forward. “I can.”

Laughter spread and silenced once Hákon raised his hand, addressing his niece. “The word of a thrall and a relative of the accused? Not worth much.”

Gísla walked towards the high seats, her voice sounding frail in the silence as everyone listened. “I met Mare on my way home. She said the same thing to me. She found the coins in the river.”

A lie, but not a dangerous one, Mare thought with relief. 

The Jarl looked between Gísla and her mother. “Are you both so determined to protect a useless sister and daughter that you stand here, lying to my face?” He rose from his seat and stepped down to his sister, lifting her chin with his index finger. 

“Please,” Runa implored, her voice broken. She had not admitted to any untruth but she must know as well as Hákon that Mare’s story was a lie.

“Do you believe me to be truly without mercy, sister?” he asked with treacherous gentility. “I am not a cruel man. I’ll let you keep the coin, as well as buy the thrall from the fisherman's wife. But punishment must be dealt out, regardless.”

“Then punish me,” Runa said without hesitation, and Mare saw her father jerk, taking one step forward. 

“I will,” Hákon said bemusedly, then looked at a member of his hird. “Take the sister. Cut her hand off. A fitting punishment, is it not? Like your husband’s Christian God commands.”

Mare didn’t know she had acted before she hastily made her way through the hall, and in between her sister and the hirdman. 

“I ADMIT!” she called out before her fear caught up with her. “I did it. I stole the coin!”

Everyone stopped moving for a moment, and then the jarl started laughing, and soon everyone except Mare’s family joined in. 

“And that’s how you smoke out the fox,” the Jarl said, still laughing. He looked at his sister with mirth, as if this was a mere amusement sport. Then his expression fell into seriousness, and he addressed his hird. “Take her out. Do what you want with her.”

Everything happened quickly after that. Mare was barely aware of the angry voices, the way people lunged forward to hit her or throw things at her. She hung limply as the hirdmen dragged her through the hall and out in the yard, to a pole with bloody ropes hanging from it. This was where they would bind her, tear her clothes off, torture and rape her before everyone’s eyes.

Laughter and cheers filled the cold air as Mare’s knees were pressed into the sandy mud and her hands bound with tight knots against the pole. In the middle of the cacophony of voices, her mother’s begging, father’s protests and sister’s sobs were heard. Mare hardly dared to look up, but as she did, they stood on the front row. 

No, she thought. Don’t look. Go away.

But her family was determined to stay, to share her final moments, to not let her go through the shame and pain alone. That realization was what made Mare break down. Against the cruel bemusement of the hirdmen she could have remained unfazed. Pain was not something new to her, after all. But her family watching cracked something in her, the realization that this would be their final memory of her too horrible to bear. 

She had never been raped, something she knew was uncommon for a thrall her age. Most thralls, boys and girls, were used from the time they were children whenever a hirdman or master felt the need for it. Mare tried to think of it in the same manner as a whipping or beating. The thought offered no comfort as the fabric of her shirt was ripped down her front, and she was pushed on her back in the ground. She closed her eyes as the first strike fell, hitting her face so hard her ears rang. A calloused hand kneaded her right breast, shooting even more pain through her. 

All around her were encouraging cheers and suggestions for what should be done with her body, the words blurring together in a horrid mass of howling bloodthirst. Somehow, people could never get enough of blood and cruelty, and it had been many weeks now since a punishment had been dealt out. Mare was nothing but a chunk of meat to feed to the hungering pack of wolves in the jarl’s court.

She wept as her trousers were pulled down and her naked ass hit the cold wet ground. Then suddenly, the surroundings became strangely quiet. For a moment, Mare hoped she had fainted. But as the sound of a horse’s hooves approached, she knew she hadn’t. 

Around her were whispers, and among the voices she heard “it’s the King’s herald.”

Scared beyond her wits, Mare squinted up at the man in the saddle. 

“Is this the thrall called ‘Mare’?” he said with a disapproving huff, gazing down at her naked body.

One of the hirdmen who had been tormenting her stood up while throwing her trousers to the side in the mud. “She’s guilty of thieving. We are punishing her according to the jarl’s wishes.”

Mare dared a look at her family, all of them pale faced. Her father’s lips were moving in a soundless prayer to his God.

“I have been sent to acquire her,” the herald said with a snort of derision, as if he could not believe he’d been put to such a menial task.

“What is this?” the Jarl’s sharp voice cut through the crowd. People moved aside as he made his way towards the place where Mare lay naked and shivering on the ground.

The herald sighed at the need to repeat himself, but bowed his head in respect to the Jarl. “Jarl Hákon. I have been sent by the master of the King’s household to acquire this thrall. I have been riding since early this morning and have no intention of wasting your time. What is your price?”

Mare hardly believed what she was hearing. Why would the King’s household want her, a useless, mutinous thrall and thief? But even as she thought it, she also knew this was her way out. A way to life instead of death.

The Jarl’s eyes glittered with malice. “One gold.”

Mare’s hope dissipated. Clearly, Hákon fancied the idea of tormenting his disloyal sister more than earning coin off a useless thrall. He couldn’t deny the King, but he could demand an outrageous price.

“Fine,” the herald said immediately, and subsequently produced a gold coin from his purse. “Give her something to wear and a rope to lead her, we leave immediately.” 

The Jarl looked dumbstruck but accepted the coin. Mare rose on shaking legs as a worn, patched tunic was pulled over her head. Her bound hands were tied to a rope and the far end of it tied to the herald’s saddle. There was no time for goodbyes to her family, all she got was one final look at them as they displayed a mix of relief and grief. No matter what fate awaited her in Arkehall and the King’s household, she was glad they wouldn’t have to witness it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> This fic is somewhat less organized than I usually do things. I don’t have a finished outline for the story, but just write whatever feels interesting and fun, when I feel like it. I think I’ll stick to the overarching canon plot but there will still be surprises. ;)  
> The beginning has just Mare POV but it will gradually shift to different characters.  
> Please tell me if you like it, what you find interesting, or just let me know that you are reading. 
> 
> Thank you PandoraCleo for beta.
> 
> Meaning of names:  
> Ruth -> Runa = secret  
> Bree -> Bredi = broad, strong  
> Tramy -> Trausti = trustworthy  
> Shade -> Siggeir = victorious  
> Kilorn -> Kiúli = Keel or boat  
> Gisa -> Gísla = arrow shaft, thin pole


	2. Queenstrial

It took the entire afternoon and part of the evening to reach Arkehall. Mare walked as fast as her sore, cold feet could manage, but still there were times when the tug from the horse made her trip on the uneven forest path.

By the time the landscape opened up into the farmlands surrounding the King’s hillfort and the town of Arkehall, she was exhausted to the point of fainting and her wrists ached like hellfire. The houses passed in a blur. Only when she entered a warm, firelit space did the world shift back into focus.

“Is this the girl?” asked a man.

The herald sighed. “Yes. Jarl Hákon charged us one gold for skin and bones.”

“Hm,” muttered the new voice, moving around Mare to grab her chin and lift her head. Without realizing, she had sat down on the earth floor, her knees giving in without her consent. She was looking at a weathered but not unkind face. “Looks healthy.”

The herald muttered something dismissive and walked out. 

“I’m Mundi,” the man said, gentler now, unbounding the rope from her wrists. “Master of the King’s household. We need a serving girl. Can you do that?”

Mare nodded numbly, too tired to care. 

“Good. Let’s get some food in you.”

Without delay, a bowl of grain porridge was placed in her lap. Mare ate, noting with pleasure how it was salted, a luxury normally not offered thralls. A mug was offered to her next, and she was surprised to find it contained milk instead of water. 

“You’ll work for it later, girl,” Mundi muttered at her surprise. “But you look like you could need a little more meat on your bones. We want thralls that are healthy and clean, you’ll be serving royalty, after all.”

Mare gaped at him, aghast. Royals? Nobody said anything about royals!

She was left with the shock of the news for a while, until a young, fresh faced girl with freckles on tanned skin approached. Her dress was simple but clean, her yellow hair plaited and neat. 

“Hello. Mare, is it?” she said gently. “I’m Ann. I’m a serving girl too. Come, let’s make you presentable.”

With food in her belly, Mare felt her energy return quickly. Ann pointed to a pail and filled it with water, instructing Mare to dip her hair into it to rinse off the caked mud and dirt from her previous ordeals. When her hair was clean and combed through, Ann immediately got to work putting it into two plaits which she skillfully fastened around Mare’s head in a simple but tidy hairstyle. Then Mare was given a dress of the same type that Ann wore, and a pair of worn leather shoes. 

Ann looked seriously at her. “Alright. Remember, don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look in anyone’s face, especially not the nobles. Understood?”

Mare nodded, and followed as Ann walked out, listening as she swiftly explained their surroundings.

The longhouse she had first entered was where the housekeeper’s staff and house thralls lived. The thralls had the coldest cots, closest to the door, but indoors nonetheless. The hillfort’s interior was an organized clutter of larger and smaller houses and sheds, all serving the purpose of keeping the royals and their guests comfortable, fed and safe. Encircling it all was a wooden palisade with archer towers.

In the center of the fort was the largest building Mare had ever seen. The King’s grand hall was built of stone and wood, with a straw roof rising as high as four men standing on each other’s shoulders. Around the front were carved wooden ornaments as well as the shields of the King’s loyal jarls. Mare stopped momentarily to gawk at the grandness of it. How was it even possible for man to make such a wonder? Had Oden himself descended from Asgard to lift the massive beams?

Ann nudged her side and nodded for Mare to follow as she entered the hall. The walls inside were covered in tapestries depicting the gods and the King’s ancestors, wielding the mythical flaming sword of their forefathers. 

The hall was buzzing with activity as servants and thralls prepared the evening’s feast, cleaning tables and decorating with bundles of colorful leaves among dried and withered harvest crowns. Around the tables were scattered groups of hirdmen and finely dressed nobles, talking and drinking, taking no notice of the activity around them.

In the middle, between two massive long tables, was a hearth over which a whole sheep was being cooked, it’s boiled flesh dripping with fat and smelling of rich seasoning. Mare must have made an involuntary sound, because once again, Ann nudged her, whispering.

“We’ll get to eat what’s left off the bones after. Come on. We have work to do.”

Work, in their case, consisted of sweeping the stone floor with bundles of fir branches. When that was done, they set off to roll a heavy barrel of ale into the hall, followed by a smaller one of mead. 

“Only noble’s drink the mead,” Ann instructed. “Hirdmen and visitors get ale. If you want to, you can serve the nobles tonight. It’s… less hazardous.”

“Hazardous?”

Ann only shrugged. “You’ve never served in a grand hall, I take it?”

Mare had, but only her uncle’s hall and that was a familiar space, with people she knew and knew to avoid. “I have. Just not this one.”

“Tonight we celebrate the arrival of the Queenstrial candidates. Tomorrow the trials will take place.”

Mare’s mother had mentioned the Queenstrial at some point, and Mare understood it was some sort of selection process. “What kind of trials?”

Ann stopped her motions where she was cleaning drinking horns with a cloth. “They fight until only one challenger remains, naturally.”

For fear of sounding stupid if she asked more, Mare only nodded. It didn’t concern her anyways. Let the rich and noble play their games however it suited them, so long as she and her family were out of harm’s way. That made her think of Kiúli and the fact that the Jarl had said to her mother, in front of the entire hall, that she’d be allowed to buy his freedom. Hákon would not be able to go back on his word without losing honor, and so Kiúli would be safe. And so was Mare, so long as she didn’t mess up, that was. 

They had just about finished the cleaning of the horns, stacking them high in baskets on each side of the hearth, when the hall began to fill up in earnest. Mare tried hard not to stare as warriors, nobles and their hirdmen stepped inside. The daughters were magnificent. The families of the Queenstrial participants had spared no effort showing off their wealth and grandness. Hair was donned in elaborate plaits with golden adornments, capes embroidered with twisting patterns, stoat fur linings and collars, richly decorated glass, gold and silver jewelry suspended by boastful, ornate brooches. 

One daughter in particular, a girl about Mare’s age with hair so blonde it was almost white, stood out. Her dress was deep indigo with invoven silver threads, black and white patterned bands and a black mantle with silver decors of daggers, pointing up or down in a mesmerizing pattern from her neck to her feet. 

“Don't stare!” Ann warned in a harsh whisper. “That’s Evi. She’ll win tomorrow.” 

Mare didn’t doubt that. Evi’s beauty was that of a blade.

At the back of the hall was a low dias covered in hides and foreign carpets. A table had been set in front of four high-backed chairs. Behind the dias was a divider carved and painted in the royal family’s colors and symbol, a red flame on black background, runes running along its edges.

A horn signalled the arrival of the royal family. The deep, vibrating sound made the entire hall cease its movement.

The King stepped out first from behind the divider. Thórstæinn Kaloringr was a large man, both in height and girth. His black hair and beard were shiny and trimmed close to his head, on which a golden crown rested, its peaks looking like flames, matching his bright bronze eyes.

After him came the Queen, with hair as blond as her husband’s was black. Elara smiled benevolently to everyone before taking her seat. For a moment, her eyes caught Mare’s, who averted her gaze immediately, hoping the Queen had taken no offence at her staring.

Mare was so busy looking at the floor, to make herself invisible, that she only noticed the princes once they had seated themselves at the table. The one closest to her, where she stood pressing against the wall as if she wished she could melt into it, had a remarkably pretty face, almost woman-like. He had shoulder length black hair that curled slightly at the ends and was tied back from his beardless face in a ponytail. He looked hardly older than her, Mare thought. Then her gaze drifted to the member of the royal family seated furthest from her, and she stopped breathing.

Looking back at her with twinkling eyes and a wry grin, was Kal. 

Kal. As in Kal...oringr.

She was so dumbstruck she almost forgot that she had a job to do, and before long, Ann pushed her towards the table. She picked her jug of mead and approached the royals, trying not to look too intimidated. Ann had instructed her to serve the King first, so she did. Then the Queen, then the oldest prince. Kal.

When she stepped in front of him and leaned in to fill his goblet, he said with a low voice. “I’m glad you made it.”

I very nearly didn’t, she wished she could snap back, but held her tongue. “I’m in your debt.”

“Don’t think about it,” he reassured and smiled that horribly winning smile again. He really was an incredibly good looking man, with his bronze eyes and black hair perfectly complemented by a richly embroidered gold-brown tunic with fur trimmings. Somehow it chafed against Mare that a man with such an open smile and mirth in his eyes would likely be matched to the deadly Evi. 

None of your business, she reminded herself.

She then poured mead for the youngest Kaloringr, who thankfully barely seemed to notice her. Once she was done, Ann began doling out mead and ale to the many people at the tables. Immediately, Mare realized what she had meant by hazardous. People seemed to make it a sport to trip and grope at her, but she deftly stepped over outstretched feet and ducked hands reaching for her breasts and most of the ones grabbing her bottom, too. Mare looked on in awe. If Ann were a warrior, surely she’d walk unscathed from any battlefield. 

When all had drinks in their horns, the King rose from his seat, holding up his golden goblet. 

“Allies,” he said, looking over the packed hall. “Friends. Welcome to Arkehall. Tomorrow is the day of Queenstrial, the day the strongest and most cunning of your daughters will be singled out as Norta’s next Queen.”

As the King spoke, Mare found her gaze drifting to Kal. He looked stoic, not pleased like his father clearly was. Perhaps he felt like he was being sold off at the auction like her brothers had, only to a bride he didn’t know or love. Stupid Mare, she told herself. Who are you to feel sorry for that royal brat? He had nothing but a life of wealth and security waiting for him. All she could hope for was a life of drudgery followed by a painless death. 

“But today,” King Thórstæinn continued, “Let’s celebrate our candidates. Please, Játgeirr, begin.”

The man addressed as Játgeirr rose, and with a loud voice swelling of pride, he said, “I present to you, Elin Jatgeirdottr Haveningr! Fierce with the bow, and quick of feet, she is our jarldom’s pride and joy. May she be victorious!”

A red-mained, willowy girl rose on the bench to make herself visible to everyone in the hall. She was possibly even prettier than Evi, Mare thought with an unfamiliar and unexpected sting of envy. 

The hall erupted in cheers and applause and the introductions continued with each family presenting their candidate. Evi’s family was the last. When she rose, ahead of her father, the room fell silent. 

“I will speak for myself,” she said with a voice soft yet resounding. “I am Evi Volosdottir Samosingr, chosen by Gefjyn. And I _will_ be victorious tomorrow.”

It took a few moments before the applauds grew into force, people in the hall too struck by the boldness of the young woman. Gefjyn, Mare knew, was the goddess of shieldmaidens and protector of unmarried women. What an odd choice for a queen candidate. 

The King rose, putting an abrupt end to the talk and cheers. “Finally, let us share a toast to my heir and Norta's future King, Thorfinn Kaloringr! Strength and Power!”

The final words were repeated by the nobles and hirdmen. Mare stepped backwards into the shadows, feeling small and vulnerable. Every person at the tables looked like they had stepped out of a grand tale of dragons and giants. Beside them and their ideals of power and ambition, she was a speck of dust. 

Ann came to her side, her face flushed from exercise. “You look faint,” the girl said.

“I’m alright,” Mare said hollowly, trying to gather her bearings. 

“I hope so. Because it’s going to be a long evening.” And with those words, Ann was off again, and Mare was called to the royal table to refill glasses and serve the lamb.

***

The next day, Mare woke exhausted but for the first time with a belly not roaring with hunger. Late last night, she, Ann and the rest of the servants had had more than their fill of leftovers from the tables, gnawing on bones and sinew until scaredly a rat could find anything worth eating. The bones were cracked and the marrow sucked out. Remains of mead and ale emptied of horns and cups. Crumbs of bread, soaked in ale, gathered in hands and eaten off the table. It had been a feast unlike anything Mare had experienced before. 

Come morning, her belly still ached with how full it was. Ann gave her a sympathetic grin and offered a steaming cup of fennel tea. “It’ll help with your stomach.”

Their first chore was to prepare the great hall for the morning meal and as they went on, people came, ate fried pork and bread, and left for their preparations. It was a pleasant day and as it neared noon, Mare found herself standing outside the hall to enjoy the warmth from the sun. By now her stomach had calmed and she felt better than she had in a long time.

Ann broke her reverie. “It’s time. Let's go.”

They walked together down the slope and through the empty town where goats and chickens were the only testimony that the place wasn’t entirely abandoned. It seemed every man, woman and child, thralls included, had ventured to the sacred place outside Arkehall to witness the selection of Norta’s next Queen.

Outside town were fields on which warriors trained and critters grazed in summertime. Little fenced off sections along the dirt road marked out kitchen gardens where cabbage and kale still defied the cold. Beyond that were acres and acres of farmland, intersected by woody hills and meandering streams. The road led to the largest hill and as they climbed the rocky path, Mare began to hear the sounds of many gathered people. When the ground evened out, she drew in a breath.

Ahead of her was the famous Arkehall temple. At least twenty paces long and ten paces wide, it was as awe-inspiring as the King’s grand hall. Rowan trees lined a circular area in front of the temple, and in the middle stood a great ash. From its branches, remains of animal sacrifices hung in different stages of decomposition while ravens and crows worked their beaks on them.

Behind the temple was another open area. A dense crowd blocked their view of whatever was going on, but Ann led on with sure steps.

The crowd had gathered around a circular basin of sorts. It couldn’t be natural, Mare noted, because the walls were too steep and supported with large stones. From the edges, people looked down at the six potential princesses waiting there, facing each other in a circle. In their middle was a goði and a vala, a priest and priestess of the gods, carrying a bowl of blood which they splattered on the girls’ faces, blessing them. 

Ann tugged her hand, urging Mare to come along. “Come, we’ll have a good view of the ring from where we’ll be serving.”

On one end of the ring, the royals and high nobles had set up camp, lounging on chairs and furs. They seemed surprisingly at ease, considering their daughters were in for a deadly fight, Mare thought. 

Soon, she was too busy filling drinking horns and running back and forth for more ale and mead to worry about it. Again, it wasn’t her business. But when she saw Kal - no, Thorfinn - look down at the candidates, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He looked so unhappy.

The goði and vala eventually finished their blessing and were helped up and out of the ring by two hirdmen. A drum started beating and the crowd’s chatter lowered to a hum of anticipation. 

Mare stared transfixed as the combatants slowly backed away from each other. They wore neither armor nor helmets. One had a bow, the red-haired beauty she remembered from the evening before. Four had swords and shields. Evi, it seemed, was unarmed, but looked no less confident for it.

“Begin!” called the King. 

It went so fast. Steel flashed, shields crashed, someone screamed. 

“First blood!” called a voice, and a girl was helped out of the ring. The fight continued. The red haired archer moved her bow with dizzying speed, sending arrows after another girl, who eventually shouted - more in anger then pain - as one of them ripped across her forehead.

Only four girls left, and the fight was less chaotic now. The first blood rule explained why their families seemed more eager than concerned, Mare realized. It also meant the girls were careful with their moves, keeping distance until they could outmaneuver each other. Unwittingly, Mare stepped closer to the edge, feeling her insides coil with a thrill as opposed to the daunting fear she’d experienced the night before.

The sky darkened as clouds gathered. Thunder rumbled, first at a distance, then closer. 

“Thor is here!” someone called out. 

An white flash, then an ear deafening crack. The crowd erupted in wild cheers as two more girls were helped out of the ring, bleeding from shallow cut wounds. One was the archer, the other had a shield. Left in the ring was Evi and another girl who was now cowering behind her shield. Only now did Mare realize what Evi’s weapons were: Tiny, lethal knives, so thin and light they hardly had a handle. She carried several in each hand, throwing them against her opponent with ferocious speed. The girl, once so confident, now had eyes wide with fear and just about raised her hand to call out - when a knife cut into her throat, drowning her words in a spray of blood.

Everything was silent for a long moment. Evi didn’t offer the dead girl a single glance, but just looked at the royals as if ‘what are you waiting for?’. A woman cried in anguish, probably the girl’s mother, Mare thought. The crowd began to press forward, and Mare was unkindly pushed aside like the thrall she was. She managed to regain her balance, realizing she was way too close to the edge for her own good. But just as she was about to return to her place behind the royals, another thunder crack burned through the air, startling the people trapping her on the edge. She lost her balance, and fell hard on the hard earth floor. 

Adrenaline made her forget the pain in her shoulder and head. She scrambled to her feet, looking up at the people who had pushed her, then to the royal seats where a pale-faced Ann met her gaze, shaking her head and forming the word ‘no’ over and over. Mare then looked at Thorfinn, for some clue that it would be okay, that he would just help her out of here, but he looked as horror-struck as Ann. The King’s face was a cold mask of disinterest.

Slowly, Mare turned around towards Evi, the deadliest woman alive. Evi looked at her with a dainty smirk on her delicate face, then held up one of her small, lethal knives. 

“Need a weapon? I can share.” Her soft voice was laced with cruel pleasure. Perhaps she thought the fight had been too swift and wanted more time to show off.

Mare felt her stomach sink. No one would help her. She was a thrall. She was nothing, here for their amusement and pleasure until their best use of her was to let her die. 

“No,” Mare hissed, and felt the anger gather into a tight, molten ball inside her.

Thunder crackled again. Flashes burned. Mare felt the power of it, cherished it. 

Her father prayed to Christ for salvation and mercy. Mare had sometimes tried it, but it never felt right. She wasn’t forgiving. She wasn’t kind. She was hatred and vengeance. She was like lighting. 

Another crack, closer this time, made Evi hesitate, but Mare was not afraid. Why would she be? She had nothing to lose. 

But then her opponent regained her composure, adjusted her grip on the knife - 

A bright, bright light burned through Mare’s vision together with a boom so loud it made her ears ring. When Mare opened her eyes again, Evi stood at the edge of the ring and was holding her hands protectively in front of herself. Between the two of them was blackened, charred earth.

Evi looked up at the royals and Mare followed her gaze.

The goði stood by the King, talking while moving his hands animatedly. Mare couldn't hear anything, her ears still rang. Then hirdmen jumped down into the ring, grabbed Mare and dragged her out of there. She tried to get a glimpse of Ann or the royals but was immediately dragged off, through the swiftly parting crowd, towards the temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meaning of names:  
> Mundi (OC) = Protector  
> King Tiberius -> Thórstæinn = “Thor + rock”  
> Cal -> Kal/Kall = from Karl = “free man”  
> Thorfinn is a made up name as far as I know.  
> -ingr = old Norse for “kin of” or “descendant of”, so basically “Samosingr” means “of Samos family”.  
> -dottr = “daughter of”


	3. The gilded cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Goði._ Priest in the old faith.  
>  _Vala._ Priestess or seeress. Practicer of seiðr.  
>  _Seiðr._ Women’s magic or shamanism in nordic mythology. There’s no male equivalent. Men who openly practice seiðr are considered _ergi_ , ‘unmanly’, a grave insult.  
>  _Hnefatafl_. A strategy game, with two opposing teams represented by figures on a rectangular board.

***

The inside of the temple was yet another place Mare had never dreamt of seeing, and as the ornate oak doors slammed shut, she wondered if it would in fact be the last thing she ever saw. The hirdmen waited outside, leaving her alone with the white gowned and blood stained goði and vala.

Statues of Thor, Oden and Frey, tall as two men and colored a dull red from countless blood offerings, stared down at her from the opposite side of the temple. Mare could see smaller figurines too, featuring gods and goddesses of less importance to this place of worship. 

The vala went to the hearth in the center and began feeding the glowing embers kindling and bundles of herbs. The temple quickly filled with a thick, fragrant smoke that seemed to smudge the edges of reality and Mare felt even more ill at ease. She searched the room for exits, her thief instincts urging her to always have a way out. She had seen at least one small door from the outside, but could not find it now. 

“No point in running, girl,” the goði said. “They’ll catch you.”

He was of middle-age, shorter than average, with blue eyes and thinning light brown hair. His voice was surprisingly gentle, but she knew better than to be fooled. After all, people often spoke gentle words to animals before slaughtering them.

“What do you want?” she asked, mentally preparing to escape, to kick and claw herself out of here if need be.

“You summoned a god,” he said. “You. A thrall.”

It wasn’t a question. Alarm rose in Mare. All her life, her survival had depended on one single skill only - invisibility. Whatever happened in the ring was irrelevant. What this man _believed_ happened was what mattered. If a goði thought she - a thrall - had somehow meddled with his precious gods, who knew what he’d do to her? He’d probably kill her and offer her blood to the gods.

“What?” she said, putting on her most clueless face. 

“A god,” the goði said, pointing a finger upwards. “Thor, to be precise. But you probably figured that out.”

Mare swallowed. “I have no idea what you mean. Can I go now?” She made a move for the door but the goði intercepted her, reaching for her wrist. Mare recoiled. 

He looked into her eyes and his words came out like a song, twirling around her like a gentle embrace, soothing her into compliance. _“Let me help you. I can help you.”_

She wished she could listen to that voice for the rest of her life. It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. Dazed, she nodded and took a step towards him.

Again, he reached for her hand and took up a small knife, which he used to make a shallow cut on the outside of her arm, pressing the blade against it until it was red with her blood. Then he brought it to his tongue, and closed his eyes.

The moment eye contact broke, Mare’s will was returned to her. Grimacing in disgust, she backed away until she was against the wall.

The man kept his eyes closed, appearing focused on the taste of her blood. Mare’s eyes darted to the vala, who was still sitting by the fire, looking intensely at the goði. 

He opened his eyes. “ _Seiðr_. The girl is a vala.”

Too flabbergasted to protest, Mare just stared stupidly between him and the seemingly mute vala. But before any further explanation could be offered, the doors to the temple were flung open, and a two hirdmen strode in, followed by the Queen.

“Well?” said the Queen, her voice chilly with disregard. 

Instantly, the goði’s face became a frosty mask, and even Mare had no trouble seeing the man’s aversion.

“She is blessed with seiðr,” the goði said curtly, defiantly almost. “You cannot kill her. It would anger the gods. She is a chosen.”

Mare thought her knees would give in with relief, and at the same time she wanted to laugh. She had no seiðr! Thralls were not chosen by gods. Or were they? She was smart enough to stay quiet, however. If they weren’t going to kill her, she’d let them believe what they wanted.

The Queen looked her over, tapping a bejeweled index finger against her lips. “What am I going to do with you?”

Mare had excellent suggestions, which she wisely kept to herself, for example: ‘Give me freedom and forget you ever saw me?’

“That is the King’s decision,” the goði said calmly. “And the King respects the gods.”

The Queen’s beautiful face twisted into a snarl. “You’re speaking out of turn, _ergi_.”

The goði raised his chin and if eyes could incinerate a person by will, Mare was sure he would do exactly that to Queen Elara. 

But it seemed his words had an effect, because a moment later, her features smoothed and in a more conciliating tone, she told the hirdmen. “Bring the girl back to Arkehall. We’ll decide what becomes of her there.”

***

Back in Arkehall, Mare was directed away from the servant’s house and into the King’s own longhouse, adjoining the grand hall. Wide eyed, she stepped inside. First there was a hallway with sleeping booths for servants. Beyond the hallway was a large living area with a table, fur-clad benches and chairs and a rectangular hearth in its centre. The walls were decorated with weapons and hunting trophies. On the table a hnefatafl board displayed a half-finished game.

From the back of the living area, another hallway led further into the house and beside it, a staircase led to a second floor with separate rooms. Mare looked around in awe. In Hákon’s hall, the only ones with a bedroom of their own was the jarl and his family. 

She wasn’t given time to explore however, but was immediately ushered into a room with a stone floor and a steaming tub. The servants took off her simple dress, loosened her braids and told her to step into the water. Mare did so without being asked twice. It smelled of lavender and rose. The feel of hot water enveloping her was otherworldly. She groaned and dunked herself in it, coming up feeling refreshed and reborn. 

While she sat in the bath, one maid began combing her hair, while another took her hands to clean her dirty nails and oil her skin into softness. When they were done, she reluctantly stepped out when ordered and was dried with soft linen, and then given an armless shift. The fabric was so soft, Mare feared it would tear apart from the smallest mishap.

No matter how pleasant all this was, surely it had to be a misunderstanding. Or were they going to sacrifice her, after all? She had heard stories of how Lakelanders still practiced human sacrifices, how they were pampered and dressed up for days, before getting poled down in a bog.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. 

One surprised-looking maid replied, “The Queen asked us to prepare you for the betrothal ceremony, my lady.”

A thick knot of dread landed in her stomach. “B-betrothal?”

The maid only nodded, and presented her with a purple dress with silver trimming.

Feeling numb, Mare let herself be dressed like a puppet. An amber necklace was given to her, and her hair was donned to what she assumed was a look worthy of… whatever she was. Betrothal? Would _she_ get betrothed? To whom? For some reason, the image of Thorfinn's smile appeared in her mind. 

Don’t be stupid, Mare, she scolded herself. She had to focus on survival. 

When the maids were done, she was escorted into the living area, where the royal family waited for her. King Thórstæinn and Queen Elara sat on high backed chairs, while the princes stood.

Mare stopped in front of them, feeling lost and confused. Did they expect her to know how to behave in this completely foreign situation? Well, then then they were out of luck.

Thórstæinn’s face displayed no emotion, but Elara’s lip curled slightly in disapproval. Thorfinn looked imploringly at Mare, as if trying to communicate something, but she had no idea what he was trying to say and so she ignored him.

The King spoke, “Mare, daughter of Runa Lagesdottr. Do you know why you are here?”

How Mare hated that these people assumed she’d done any of this on purpose! Before her better judgement could rein in her tongue, she replied. “As you may remember, I was brought here by your hird. Sire.”

Thorfinn paled. The King’s glare darkened and before Mare could react, her cheek burned from a backhand slap. She could feel one spot where a ring had cut into her skin, drawing blood.

The queen immediately shot up, grabbing the King’s arm before he could do more damage. “Not her face,” she urged him and Mare hated her, too. 

King Thórstæinn straightened to his full height, staring down at Mare. “I am well informed of your family’s dishonor and the shame your mother brought to her brother by mixing his line with a feeble Christian. I also conclude from the fact that you are grown and still live by your parent’s hearth, that you are useless.” Mare flinched. The words were like another slap, because they were true.

“Still,” the King continued, “it would seem the gods have other plans for you.”

There it was again. The gods. Mare shivered despite the warmth of the hearth. “I know nothing about the gods,” she said, daring a look at Thorfinn, who met her eyes with a miniscule headshake, a warning. Perhaps she should heed it, this time.

“What you know and don’t know frankly doesn’t matter,” the King went on. “Nor do I care what you want. This is what _will_ happen: You _will_ serve our family and train in whatever skills are needed to do that. And you will do that as a free woman.”

If the moon fell from the sky and shattered like a glass perl, Mare could not be more surprised. “I’m… free?” she said, suspecting this was all an elaborate joke. 

The Queen’s next words made it clear it wasn’t. “Your… unusual performance today has placed a dilemma before us, one we have decided to resolve as follows: You will marry our youngest son, Prince Maven.”

Mare opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t form a sound. This was absurd! This was insane! 

But she saw only seriousness in the King and the Queen’s faces, as well as disbelief and shock on the prince’s.

“Father!” Maven sputtered. “You can’t mean- do you mean-”

The king raised a warning hand and Maven abruptly silenced. Thorfinn looked closed-off, likely preoccupied with thoughts of his impending betrothal to death incarnate.

The Queen continued where she’d left off: “But not as Mare Runadottr. Your name is now Marveig Egilsdottr Tyrfingr. The long lost daughter of one of our kingdom’s greatest heroes.”

Mare opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but found no words. She looked at Maven. _Prince_ Maven. The youngest Kaloringr worked his jaw, his breathing quick and shallow, but he said nothing. It was a bitter comfort to know she wasn’t the only one thrown into this unprepared. 

But if they were willing to marry her to their _son,_ it had to mean something significant had happened in the ring today. Her confidence grew a notch.

“What are you not telling me?” she asked. 

Queen Elara flashed a lovely smile. “We only know that the gods favor you. Enough to apparently let you challenge the winner of a Queenstrial. Do you understand the significance of that?”

Mare tilted her head. “Then why lie about my name, my family?”

A long silence followed. Obviously, they had not expected her, a lowly thrall, to ask questions. She looked to Thorfinn. The King and Queen both shot him warning looks, which he ignored.

“You’ve probably heard that there are many who think it is wrong to forbid worship of the Christian God,” he said.

Mare furrowed her brow in confusion. What did that have to do with _her_?

Her father, Daniel, had been forced to renounce his faith when he was taken as a thrall, and to protect them, he never taught her or her brother’s anything about his God. 

Thorfinn continued, “It appears some people have… freed thralls, like the Christian God commands. Vígarr the Red, a Lakeland jarl, is one of them. My father is concerned that Vígarr might have found sympathizers in Norta, too.”

Mare tried to puzzle the information into some form of coherence. “And that has to do with me because…”

“Because you are - _were_ \- a thrall,” the Queen acquiesced. “Your story and name, _Marveig,_ will be the tale that quells all ideas that the Christian God is somehow more powerful, more _just,_ than our true ones.”

A bitter taste filled Mare’s mouth. “So I’m to lie about who I am for the rest of my life.”

“You have no choice, girl,” the Queen hissed, her patience wearing thin. “From this day onwards, your every move, every word, will be in service to our family and to Norta. Understood?”

Mare licked her lips, searching for a way out, but found none. They were the King and Queen, and she was nothing. They only kept her alive because killing her would look bad and because they had more use for her alive, to help their larger schemes. 

But if she couldn’t free herself of this snag, she might as well use whatever power it gave her to be in this position. Straightening, she looked at the King. “I will do as you ask. But you have to do something for me, too. I can’t marry a prince while my family remains enslaved.” If she were going to do this, she’d be damned if they didn’t get something out of it. “My brothers. Free them. And my father. And offer them land, enough for my brothers to split among themselves when they marry.” 

“Done,” the King said. 

Mare nodded, a little taken aback by the ease with which the King had accepted her ‘terms’. But what were a few thralls and a bit of land, to a King? The memory of Ann, harassed and struggling in the grand hall, came to her mind. “Also, let Ann serve me. If I’m to be a lady I’ll need a maid.”

“Ann?” the King raised an eyebrow.

“She means the other serving girl,” the Queen gritted out.

“Fine,” the King sighed, sounding exasperated now. “Any other ‘requests’?” 

Don’t press your luck, Mare told herself. “No.”

She glanced at Thorfinn and to her surprise, he looked pleased. Like he appreciated how she had handled herself against his father.

Maven stepped forward and Mare gave the younger prince a closer look for the first time. He truly was very pretty, with black shiny hair like his older brother, and clear, blue eyes like his mother. He was dressed in a dark grey tunic with red embroidery featuring the Kaloringr flame. Almost bashfully, he reached out his hand to her. Mare took it, aware how rough her own was in comparison, despite the handmaids’ efforts.

“Hello,” he said, and his voice was as gentle and soft as the skin of his hand. A blush rose to her face unbidden, as the full implication of this arrangement began to sink in.

“I’m… I’m Mare,” she said stupidly. They were introduced already, but she could think of nothing else to say. “Marheid, I mean.”

Maven smiled a shy, boyish smile that relieved some of her anxiety. It appeared he was as bewildered by the situation as she was, and that was, at least, a small comfort.

***

As instructed, upon entering the grand hall, Mare made herself as invisible as possible. No one would notice her, regardless, as the hall was packed with all the visiting families. Except, there was one who noticed her. Evi stared at her from the opposite side of the room, murder written on her face. 

“Friends and allies!” the King called out, standing on the edge of the dias. “Today, the Queenstrial brought forth not just our kingdom’s future Queen, but a lost treasure!

“Long had we thought the child of Egil Tyrfingr lost as his ship perished, and with it, the might and power of his bloodline. Unbeknownst to all, the mother of his unborn child, a humble servant girl, made it to shore. There, she succumbed from illness after giving birth, and left the child in the care of the first man she met, a Christian traveler. This _Christian_ man unjustly hid the child’s true name, and if it were not for the will of the gods, she would have remained a thrall.”

The hall was completely silent now, each and every person taking in the fabricated story with an air of reverence. 

Mare had to stop herself from wincing. It was a ridiculous story. The only reason they chose to believe it was because no one could fathom a world where a lowly thrall could summon Thor’s mighty power. 

The King’s voice rose in strength: “We present to you: Marveig Egilsdottr Tyrfingr!”

Mare hardly registered the ear-deafening cheers as she walked up to the King.

“And…” the King continued, all kindness and benevolence, “what better way to reward my loyal friend, than to offer his daughter to marry my son, Prince Maven.”

Maven played his part well, looking at her with something that could almost be appreciation. They locked hands in front of the dias.

Maven said the words. “I pledge myself to you, Marveig Tyrfingr. Do you accept me as your future husband?”

Last chance to escape, an inner voice in Mare warned. But this grand spectacle, this life-long lie she had promised she’d uphold, was the price for her family’s future and freedom. 

And so, Mare said the words she’d been made to memorize. “I accept. I pledge myself to you, Maven Kaloringr.”

The words tasted sour to one who had just escaped slavery only to be owned by another immediately after. To her surprise, Maven gave her hands a reassuring squeeze and the barest curve of a smile formed on his lips.

They were ushered aside for what was meant to be the evening’s main attraction. However, even as Thorfinn with a stoic face swore his loyalty to Evi and she accepted him, people kept staring at Mare and Maven as if they were a pair of exotic birds.

The evening went on with another feast and this time, instead of serving, Mare was sitting at the high table, next to her betrothed. It felt like all eyes were on her. She looked down, away and finally, her eyes landed on Thorfinn. Kal. The one who was the reason she’d ended up here. 

He looked at her from the end of the table with a somber expression and raised a bronze cup in an unsmiling, silent toast. At his side, Evi’s attention was elsewhere. The future Queen’s eyes drifted to the crowd over and over again, as if she were looking for someone. But when she saw Mare looking at her, she snarled and put on a plastered smile.

Beside her, she heard Maven let out an audible sigh. “Welcome to the family,” he whispered. 

“Thanks,” Mare said with a grimace meant as a smile, which fell the next moment.

“I can show you around tomorrow,” he said, then added, “If you like.”

Surprised at his kindness, she smiled for real this time. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Mare tried to eat civilly, watching the way Maven and Elara, on each side of her, ate using only the tips of their fingers, drying them off on a piece of cloth to avoid staining their clothes and goblets. It all looked awfully complicated, but she tried to mimic it all the same. 

Mare didn’t talk much, despite the many questions raining in on her from people who approached the high table. Not that she had to say much, as the Queen offered explanations to any questions anyone might have, perfectly enacting the good-hearted benefactor. Occasionally, Elara even placed a gentle hand on Mare’s shoulder, at which Mare struggled to suppress a shiver. 

Again and again, goblets were filled, and Mare, being unused to the much more potent mead compared with water-diluted ale, became increasingly dizzy. She’d seen enough drunken nobles make fools of themselves to understand the imminent danger of a tongue slip or something even worse. 

“I think,” she said low to Maven, struggling for something more eloquent but the only thing that came out was the crude truth. “I really have to pee.” She made a move to stand up, swaying so dangerously, Maven had to rise and steady her with an arm around her waist.

“Thank you,” she slurred, and leaned heavier on the prince, supporting her head on his shoulder.

Maven turned to his mother. “Does she have a room ready?”

A few more questions and answers were exchanged that were drowned out from Mare by a wave of loud laughter in the hall. She was vaguely aware that the subject of amusement was her, or rather, her being too drunk to stand and being held by her betrothed. Finally, they were on their way, past the divider at the back of the hall and onwards through a passage that led to the royal family’s home. Maven had brought along a wax candle for light.

“I’m sorry,” Mare said as Maven staggered with her up the stairs.

“No problem,” he said and pushed a door open with his knee. Inside was a room that barely fit a sleeping pallet, a chest and a small table. 

He deposited Mare on the edge of the pile of furs and blankets. The world briefly stopped spinning and brought him, and her situation, back into focus. Maven set the candle on the table. “I know it’s small, but it’s just for now. I’ll get a handmaid…”

When he turned to leave, she grabbed his wrist. 

“Don’t bother them. Not for me. We don’t have to pretend here.”

He stilled and looked at her with soft, serious eyes. 

It was probably the mead talking but Mare decided to let it talk for her. “I know you don’t want to marry me. I’m sorry this happened. To both of us.”

Maven seemed to consider his words carefully before speaking. “The younger sons often get to choose.”

Ouch. Mare looked down. So both their lives were ruined. Great. 

“So who did you want to marry?” she asked. 

He chuckled softly. “I have no one. Not yet, at least. But… Marveig.” He sat down on his haunches, taking her hands in his. “If my earlier words offended you, I’m sorry, I was just surprised.”

“Makes two of us.” She grimaced, feeling another rise in urgency. “I really have to pee.”

“Oh, yes,” he rose and fetched a broad bowl with a pungent smell that made it clear what it’s purpose was.

“Thanks.” She rose unsteadily, stepped across it, and lifted her skirt to avoid getting piss on it. 

“Um, goodnight then,” Maven said hurriedly and escaped the room, closing the door.

Mare looked surprised at the closed door. Had she done something wrong? Then it occurred to her that perhaps a prince of Norta didn’t normally watch other people pee. 

She didn’t remember more after that, but apparently she’d managed to get into bed because the next morning, she woke under a thick layer of furs and blankets. The sound of a person entering made her turn her head. Immediately she realized she was still drunk, her world rocking back and forth in a not at all pleasant manner. 

The flame of a candle came closer, eventually illuminating the older Kaloringr prince’s face. 

“Thorfinn,” she croaked, swallowing against a parched throat.

“It’s Kal. Please,” he said with a hushed voice and a soft smile. “That’s what everyone calls me.” He placed a jug on the table and she desperately hoped it contained water.

She made an onset to sit up but fell back with a groan.

He chuckled. “Someone should have warned you. Mundi makes the best mead. You’re not its first victim.”

Mare just groaned, the memory the honey-sweetened beverage sending a wave of nausea to her gut.

“I’m sorry to wake you so early, but I, father and Maven are leaving for the northern borderlands. We’ll be gone for a week, maybe less.” He sat down cross-legged beside the bed, tilting his head like an affectionate dog concerned for its master. His practical and warm traveling clothes made him look more like the man she’d met in the Stilts, mere days ago.

“Maven… did he ask about me?” 

The small kindness Maven had shown her yesterday had been a welcome surprise, something indicating that her future here wasn’t just another kind of hell. But then again, maybe it had been an act. Maven was forced into this as much as she was, after all.

“Um,” Kal looked down. “I haven’t spoken to him. Don’t worry about it. My brother can be… delicate.” Again, he smiled, leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, leaving a hot trail on her skin. His touch shouldn’t feel natural or good, but it did.

“But he is a good brother. A good man.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but bit his mouth shut, nodding as if deciding something for himself. “I just wanted to check that you were alright.” 

On her second attempt, she managed to sit up, dragging herself upright on her arms, and the world spun another lapse. “Well. As you can see, I’m still alive.”

“I found you asleep halfway into the bed last night.”

“Ah.” She cleared her throat, trying not to imagine what level of indignity he might have found her in. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know it was wrong of me to enter your room, I just, I…” he seemed at loss for words, gesturing helplessly. “It’s my fault you’re in this mess.”

She nearly laughed, then felt nauseous again but for a different reason, remembering just what kind of ‘mess’ she’d been in two days ago. No matter where life took her, there were only bad options. She reached for the water, drank greedily and then wiped her mouth.

“My _life_ is a mess, Kal. I’m thrall born. Or did you forget that?”

He shook his head, looking bashful. Of course he hadn't, she thought bitterly. But neither was he capable of understanding just what that meant. After all, could a human understand what it was like to be a sheep, a pig, a dog? A boot or a stool? To be the object of another’s whims and urges, and have no choice but the one that caused the least pain? And that sometimes, that option meant walking into the sea.

Suddenly she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“Safe journey,” she said coldly, turning her eyes away. 

Realizing he wasn’t wanted, Kal gave her a rueful look like a kicked puppy, then rose and left her alone in a room that suddenly felt very dark and very lonely. 

For a moment, she considered calling after him, to say something conciliatory or at least thank him for saving her from Hákon. But she did not. No matter how well-intended his assistance was, he did not and could never understand where she came from. Or how helping her was the equivalent of kicking a pebble from a mountain.

No matter how fine her clothes, how eloquent the lie of her origin, how comfortable her life, Mare felt like part of her had died, beaten and humiliated, outside Hákon’s hall. Because if it hadn't been her, it would have been someone else. It _was_ someone else, every day, somewhere out there. And that was something Mare could not forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina -> Marveig = Strong sea
> 
> The Arkehall temple is a somewhat up-scaled version of the Uppåkra Temple. <https://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vikingatida_tempelbyggnader>


	4. Between brothers

“Mother.” Maven said by way of announcing his presence. 

It was past midnight but the Queen would still have her bath before going to bed. One handmaid spent every evening with the sole task of warming water for her mistress, preparing it with fragrant herbs and oils. When Maven entered, Elara relaxed in the tub, hands resting on the edge, one foot stretched out. A handmaid sat on a stool behind the Queen, carefully untangling pins and ribbons from Elara’s elaborate hairstyle. 

“Son,” Elara said smoothly with a smile that made him love and hate her at the same time.

He hadn’t returned to the hall after helping his inebriated future bride to her room. Instead, he’d stayed in the house, waiting for a chance to talk to his mother. He had played his part in this little game of hers so far, and now he deserved some answers. 

“Care to explain to me what just happened, mother? Do you really want me to marry that- that-” That crude, uneducated, simple-minded peasant who had just sat down to relieve herself right in front of him! Gods! He shuddered. “That girl.”

Elara studied her nails. “Yes. Is she alright?”

Maven glared. “ _ Why _ , mother?”

“Something had to be done. Swiftly. To tie her to us. Do you know what she is?” She looked at him as if he was supposed to know the answer.

He shook his head.

“Yes you do. A  _ thrall _ who summoned a  _ god _ . You heard your brother before. With Vígarr’s sympathizers nipping at our borders, we can’t afford this tale to catch wind. And that’s why you’ll marry her. It’s the only way to convince the high borns she really is a Tyrfingr.”

If he grit his teeth any harder, they’d crack. But there was no arguing with his mother. He was a grown man but before her he still felt like a boy. As he turned to leave, she added, her voice like the flick of a whip,

“Also, you’ll leave together with Kal and your father tomorrow, to the borderlands.”

Maven tensed. Getting out on the road with his brother and father was the very last thing he wished. Well, aside from marrying a dressed-up pig herder. 

“Yes, mother.”

***

Next morning, he woke earlier than he would have liked. His father and Kal already waited on their horses when he was ready, sending him looks of mild reproach. He didn’t bother to be offended. It had always been his place to be the  _ little _ brother. The shadow to Kal’s flame. 

Kal would normally soften next, say something encouraging to raise the mood, but today his older brother just stared sullenly into the distance, forlorn as if he’d lost his kingdom on a game of dice last night. Without a word, he kicked his horse into movement towards the opening in the palisade.

King Thórstæinn looked after his oldest son. “Your brother is right, Maven. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

Maven looked at his father, feeling the familiar hatred well up inside him, but controlled his features into a mask of indifference, giving only a swift nod in response before they urged their horses onward.

Outside the palisade, a hird of forty men on horses joined up with them.

Traveling to the borderlands would take two days, and it was something their father and Kal did regularly, to oversee their defences and make a show of presence for the Lakelanders. Only on the rare occasion had Maven been invited to join, and he was sure this time it was entirely his mother’s doing. No doubt she wanted time alone with the girl to whittle down the roughest edges. Perhaps he should be grateful for that, at least.

They traveled along the Winter river, named so because of its origin in the jokuls, far northeast in the mountains. On their first day of travel, nobody bothered to wear neither helmet nor shield, and most weapons were stowed away at the back and side of the saddles for comfort. Tomorrow they’d have to keep lookout for enemies. However, there was little to fear. Lakelander bands were usually interested in easy pickings, raiding farmsteads and storages, and returning quickly with their loot. 

The first night they made camp on the riverside. While the men set up tents, Maven walked to the river. A high, grass-covered bank marked the water level for the spring flood, but this time of the year the river ran low. He slid over the bank and onto the dry sand below, hidden from view from the camp. No one would miss him, he was dead weight on this outing and everyone knew it even if they didn’t say it. At best, they might miss him tomorrow morning. 

He curled up on himself, hugging his knees to his chest, despising what his life had become.

“Mavey?” The voice came from above, warm with concern and a little playfulness. Kal. Of course.

Whenever one of Maven’s ‘moods’ came over him, Kal had an uncanny talent for figuring out exactly where he’d sneaked off to. When they were children, Kal had found him hiding in a haystack, under a pulled-up boat, in an archer-tower. He always knew just what his troubled little brother had gone to find a moment alone. And despite his initial annoyance, Maven was moved every time it happened. 

A slide and a thump marked Kal’s entry into his private space. 

“Though I’d find you here,” Kal said, and whatever dark mood had fallen on him this morning seemed forgotten. 

Maven shrugged, knowing well it was a perfect imitation of his ten-year-old self moping after getting humiliated yet again at sparring practice. “Too many people.”

Kal slumped down beside him, not quite touching, but close. “I feel much the same.”

They sat in silence for a while, Maven hugging his crossed legs, Kal leaning his elbows on his knees, watching the water stream past, glinting in the new moon. 

When Kal spoke, it was with a hollow, listless voice unlike himself. “Father says the weddings will be at the spring blodt.”

Maven pretended indifference. “Mm.”

“I can tell you’re not happy about it, and I understand,” Kal continued, sounding more assured now. Likely because he had managed to get back into the familiar territory of acting the supportive older brother.

“You don’t seem particularly eager yourself.”

Now it was Kal’s turn to pretend indifference. “I always knew I would not marry for love.”

“You know her, right? Mare. How did you meet her? Did you..?” He kept his voice neutral and hoped Kal did not notice the way his shoulders tensed up, bracing for the answer.

It was no secret that Kal was easy on the eye and had a smile that made young women - and older ones too - weak in the knees. Maven had no illusions as to his brother’s interest in the girl who until yesterday had been nothing but a thrall. Kal may have to marry for political reasons but he could have as many lovers as he pleased once his first son was born, and Mare certainly was pretty, if a bit skinny.

“No!” Kal replied vehemently and Maven was surprised at the palpable relief he felt. Otherwise it would have been typical that even the woman Maven was to marry had been under his brother at some point.

But the way Kal’s smile grew wistful and his gaze distant made Maven realize it would only have been a matter of time before that had happened, too. “I went to Winter’s bay some days ago. I caught her outside the Stilts alehouse when she tried to steal from me.”

A pig herder  _ and _ a thief, Maven thought bitterly. Great. 

Kal continued, “We talked. She was clever. Witty and unafraid. Her family had been dealt a harsh lot, and it seemed Mare got the brunt of it. So when I got back I made arrangements. I knew she’d be better off in Arkehall than with that lice-ridden drunkard Hákon in Winter bay.“

Maven couldn’t resist a roll of his eyes at Kal’s self-proclaimed magnanimity. A younger version of him might have adored his brother for this simple gesture of benevolence, but now he knew better. He knew his brother only stretched as far as their father’s leach would let him, and often not even that far. 

“Why not just free her?” 

He was not at all surprised by the way Kal’s face became blank with miscomprehension. “What do you mean? She was a thrall. Free or not, she’d have to serve a master. At least with us she’d have protection.”

Oh, dear brother, so honorable but so stuck in your own head, Maven thought with dark humor. Kal was the ideal crown prince, really. Out of fear to displease their father, Kal scarcely dared to even think one independent thought. 

“Of course,” Maven said with mock sympathy. “Also if she were free she would be able to run from your inevitable advances...”

“Absolutely not!” Kal sputtered. “I would never! You know I’m not like that.”

Maven winked at him. “I know. But it’s too much fun to poke your honor on the subject.”

“Ah…” Kal grinned and shook his head. “I should wrestle you into the dirt for that, little brother.”

Maven replied easily, “No you shouldn’t. You need someone to put you in your place once in a while, Kaloringr.”

Kal peered at him from under his brow, still grinning. For a moment, Maven felt immense grief grip his heart. He could see a possible future unfold between them, one of peace and unyielding loyalty. A future where their children played together, maybe a marriage between cousins some day. The images crumbled like ashes. Maven’s path led elsewhere, into much darker places. 

But he was nothing if not adept at hiding his emotions and reactions, and it was imperative that he played the submissive, misunderstood younger brother until enough pieces on this hnefatafl board aligned with his interests. 

Kal stayed for a little longer, talking about a colt he was going to break in once they returned to Arkehall, and Maven humored him until he felt the need to return to the men.

When he was finally alone, Maven drew a shaking breath, and let his mask drop. A painful, hard band closed around his chest and the grief tore relentlessly through him. Until one year ago, Maven had been convinced his brother’s love for him was greater than his fear of their father. 

He could see it before his inner eye, how Kal had come with him that fateful night instead of refusing him. They would have sneaked outside, to the prisoner cellar, lured the guards away and opened the door. Maven had prepared a pack with clothes and food for the prisoner, a young man no older than Kal had been at the time. That man would now be safe, home in Montfort with his family and the stories of his travels. Stories of Maven.

But Kal had not helped him, and the day after, Maven had been forced to watch helplessly as their father’s sentence was carried out.

Months before that, on the day Thomas Silvius arrived in Arkehall, he had only been in Norta for a few weeks, but had still learned their language well enough to hold a conversation. In his land, he had told them, everyone could read and write using  _ letters _ . A land where their God - for there was only one - had declared all men and women free and equal. He had said his mission here was to learn about Norta and bring that knowledge home to his Consul, a king of sorts, but one elected by his people. 

The King’s court had laughed, but Maven had not. He had been enthralled. Somewhere, far in the southwest, was a land where common sense was the rule of the day. Where people respected a brilliant mind over a strong sword arm.

On the condition that Thomas spoke no more of his God, he was allowed to remain in Arkehall. While Kal was busy training with his father’s men, Maven learned from Thomas how to read and write with letters and pencil and ink. On the evening when he presented his first transcript of the story of Ginnungagap, the abyss between frost and fire where the world had begun, Thomas’ hand had lingered on his, their eyes meeting in a long, consuming stare.

Maven didn’t know who kissed the other first, only that once they started, neither could stop. Thomas’ scholar hands were soft like Maven’s own as they found their way under his clothes, undressing him in the darkness of his bedchamber. Their lovemaking had been brief and inexperienced, quiet but freeing. 

“We should travel,” Maven had said. “Together.” 

They had kissed again, deep long kisses full of hope and promise. They had cleaned themselves up, dressed warmly and gone out to watch the stars. Thomas had told him of a tel-e-scoop, a metal tube that allowed the viewer to see the moon. Maven asked if Thomas had seen the wolves hunting the moon, too, and Thomas had laughed and said there were no wolves. There were only ‘orbits’, and ‘planets’, and a whole universe to learn about. 

The memories burned like glowing coals in his throat and Maven shuddered as another wave of anguish hit him. Was it possible to die because of how much you missed somebody?

If only Thomas’ God had not demanded the impossible. 

If only his brother had loved him more than he loved his stinking honor.

The grief and betrayal was like a sick growth on his heart. One day, it would make him forget all that was good between them, freeing him to take his revenge. 

***

Next day, the men geared up in helmets, chainmail and hide armor. Shields were hung at the front of their saddles and bows strung. Being left-handed, Kal rode beside Maven, allowing the princes to shield each other from arrows in both directions. Today, his brother was in a good mood, joking with the hirdmen until they made him blush by offering him bedchamber advice in explicit detail, sending cascading laughter down the row of warriors.

“A handsome man like you will have no trouble pleasing a wife,” said Björn, one of their most seasoned warriors, a man with plaited thick brown beard and hair. He leaned over to give Kal a hearty slap on the back. “You’re all the young girls dream of.”

“That never stopped you from claiming a few of them, Björn!” a hirdman further back jibed. 

“Björn has as many bastards as the rest of us have lice!” another called.

Kal laughed too, no doubt glad to no longer be the object of everyone’s entertainment. Even their father joined in, his booming voice easy to recognize. Maven didn't laugh, but looked at the cliffs on each side of the road. They were still pretty far from the border but something felt wrong. The forest was too quiet.

He eyed the treeline above the jutting rock formations, starting as he saw something move. A glint of metal, a rustle of dry leaves.

He drew in a breath to call out, but was preempted by Björn’s much louder voice, “Ambush! Protect the King!”

Within heartbeats, Maven and Kal were surrounded by hirdmen on all sides. The air filled with the whoosh-thump whoosh-thump of arrows hitting shields. A horse to Maven’s right whinnied and reared, a short, thick arrow piercing its neck. Slowly, they began moving forward, in close formation holding their shields like a roof. A man fell with an arrow through his helmet, eyes rolled back as he died instantly.

Kal screamed, “This place is a death trap! We have to ride faster!” 

Kicking their horses onwards, they left a trail of downed, kicking horses and fallen men. Maven cowered behind his shield, hardly seeing where he was going. Arrow after arrow whooshed past him and to his terror, he suddenly realized he was alone, the hirdman to his right and front gone or dead. His horse danced and whinnied and spun on the spot. Maven cursed and kicked but the animal wouldn’t obey.

Daring a look above his shield at the cliffside, he saw a blonde woman carrying a strange weapon he’d never seen before. It was too far away to discern any detail, but it was clear to him that this was the foreign contraption used to fire the short arrows. Around her neck was a bright red cloth. 

“Brother!” Kal called, his voice angry and afraid. “What are you waiting for?” 

His brother grabbed Maven’s horse’s reins and got both their horses moving towards safety. 

Out of the pass and into the open forest, they rode in behind a line of shields where Björn and Thórstæinn were discussing what to do. It was clear that the old hirdman wanted to confront the enemy on foot, but even Maven with his lack of experience knew how doomed that idea was. When Kal made his way inside the circle of men, Maven followed, speaking before his brother did,

“Did you see their weapons?” he asked.

Everyone quieted, even his father looked at him with surprise. 

“They weren’t using bows,” Maven continued. “The arrows are different too, shorter, stronger. I saw them shoot through a man’s helmet, spitted like a fish in shallow waters.”

Silence fell as the men considered this. 

Reluctantly, Kal nodded. “My brother is right,” he conceded. “We have lost eight men. If we try to face them here, we’ll lose. As long as we’re in the forest, they have the advantage.”

Björn stepped forward. “My King. I will stay and fight if it means your safe return to Arkehall.”

The King thought on this for a moment. Their way back was blocked. A counter-attack on foot might buy him, Maven and Kal enough time to get back through the pass, but they’d still run the risk of being attacked by pursuers on fresh horses. 

“No,” the King said. “We’ll continue north, to the fort at Agnarr’s hill. There, we’ll send out scouts and find out how many and where the enemy are. We’ll be able to hold the fort against a much larger force, so long as we have food. We can get critters from the farms we pass on the road.”

Everyone got back on their horses. They pressed hard the rest of the way to the fortress. On the way, Maven noted with interest how farms were left intact, not pillaged and burned the way Lakelander bands normally left them. Whatever was going on, this was not a normal raid. When they stopped by a particularly large farmstead, the farmer and his family stood outside, waiting with bowed heads as their livestock was rounded up and herded out on the fields towards Agnarr’s hill.

Those people would starve next winter, Maven knew for certain. 

Kal, of course, noticed neither the dirty children staring at them with wide eyes and sunken cheeks, or the way the farmer’s wife cried silently. Instead, his older brother had ridden ahead to scout the way together with Björn. 

Maven looked back at the farm with a feeling that something was amiss. Then he realized what it was. All the people he saw were free men and women, no one bearing the signature cowering demeanor. A farm this size usually had at least five thralls,

“Wait,” Maven said just as the hird started moving. Someone gave an impatient sigh and far ahead he could see his father give him an annoyed look. Maven turned his horse back to the farmer, still standing in front of his longhouse, and dismounted. 

“Your farm doesn’t look raided, but we escaped an ambush from a Lakelander band,” Maven said to the farmer. “Have they been here? Did they take anything?”

The farmer nodded somberly. “They were here. We thought they’d kill us, I sent my wife and children away. But the leader, a fair-haired woman, only demanded I’d leave my thralls to her. Held a long speech to them of how they were free to go as they pleased at their own peril, or follow her and help her free more.”

Maven felt an odd shiver of anticipation. Suddenly he was absolutely certain that woman had been who he saw at the ambush. He was somehow also certain she hadn’t meant to kill neither him nor Kal. But why?

These things did not matter to the farmer who had lost both his thralls and his critters this day, however. Maven pulled up his sleeve and took off a bronze bracelet inlaid with gold threads. “Payment for your animals.”

The man stared at the bracelet, stammering, “My Prince… thank you.”

Maven turned around and mounted his horse, uninterested in any display of gratefulness the farmer might be willing to give. He kicked his mount into a trot, until he was side by side with his father. 

“What did you ask him?” Thórstæinn said.

Maven considered for a moment what he should tell him. “The Lakelanders have been here. They are freeing thralls, apparently.” He wasn’t going to mention the woman, the leader. That information was too ambiguous, and he still hadn’t decided how to best use it.

The King’s expression darkened, but he said nothing. Perhaps he, too, knew more than he let on.

They reached the fortress shortly before nightfall, a hilltop with a wooden palisade surrounding it, which could be removed in two places. In the middle was a patch of green where they made camp and let the animals walk as they pleased, eating what they could find. 

By the time darkness fell, one of the goats was roasting above a fire and a barrel of ale was shared among the men. Come morning, they would send out scouts and runners to the closest two jarls, Volo and Játgeirr.

Maven sat by the fire, sullenly contemplating the fact that he was here, in the cold and dirt, instead of in their comfortable home. 

“Why so gloomy, my prince?” Björn’s deep voice rumbled behind him. The warrior sat down by his side. “Valhalla isn’t a place to fear.”

Björn had been around for as long as Maven could remember, training him and Kal both since they were children. Maven had cried silently more than one night from painful bruises and humiliation at this man’s hand.

“I’d just rather not end up there so soon,” Maven muttered. Or at all. Nothing waited for him in Valhalla, because Thomas was in his Heaven.

“Ah, I can understand that,” Björn said, stretching out his legs and placing his damp boots close to the heat. “You have a beautiful bride waiting for you. Is it true what they say, that she is chosen by the god of thunder?”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” Maven replied tersely. He wasn’t interested in polite talk and Björn’s presence annoyed him when he’d rather be alone.

“I ask because I know she cannot be who the King and Queen says she is,” Björn said carefully.

Maven looked surprised at the hirdman. “Oh? Then who is she?”

“That I don’t know. What I do know is that she  _ isn’t _ who they say she is. Because there was no woman on the ship that Egil left with on the journey his ship sank.”

“Interesting.” Maven made his voice neutral, even smiling slightly, as if it didn’t bother him at all. It didn’t. He already knew ‘Marveig’ was actually Mare, and that she was thrall born, nothing more, nothing less.

Steps approached and one of the hirdmen stopped by the fire. “Prince Maven? The King is asking for you.”

Thankful to get out of Björn’s company but dreading his father’s, Maven rose with a groan, his body aching with how unused he was to riding all day long. In his father’s tent, Kal waited already. Maven spotted an improvised hnefatafl board on the floor with different colored pebbles as game pieces.

Both the son and the father were sitting down, Kal busy sharpening his sword. Thórstæinn looked thoughtfully on the scrabble in the dirt before him. On top of the game board, Maven realized then, were additional lines and the game pieces were not in their usual places. Kal and Thórstæinn had been discussing strategy, drawing in the dirt and moving game pieces around.

He had to swallow the bile rising in his throat at yet another irrefutable proof that he was nothing but dead weight to his father.

“You sent for me, father.”

“Yes,” the King said. “Tomorrow morning you and Kal will be going back to Arkehall. The long road. Kal knows it, just stick with your brother and you’ll be safe and sound.”

Maven glanced at Kal, who busied himself with the sharpening stone. It was clear from his demeanor that he was not pleased with their father’s decision, but whatever discussion they had had was over.

“What about you, father?” Maven asked.

Thórstæinn smiled tightly. “You’ll get an escort of two. That leaves me with thirty men, more than enough to hold this fort against anything the Lakelanders might throw at us, until Volo or Játgeirr get here with their hirds. Kal will gather our forces in Arkehall and take twenty ships along the coast to Haven. We’ll make our countermove from there.”

Maven did not look forward to days of hard riding, but of course he couldn’t say that. It was a sound plan, even if he was just a piece of extra luggage for Kal to bring home to Arkehall. His conversation with Björn came to mind and the malicious thrill that followed was a balm on his wounded pride. Innocently, as if he had no idea of the importance, he said,

“Björn says he knows there was no woman on Tyrfingr’s ship, claims he was there on the day they left.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Just thought you should know, father. In case it’s important.” 

It was important. Important to Maven to find out just how far his father would go to protect the lie about Mare.

“See you tomorrow morning,” he said, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jokul = old word for glacier
> 
> My playlist on Spotify for this fic: [The Blessed](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ftYclzOEn95KOqei69ptz?si=a78453038f204d54)


	5. Trouble on the road

The weather was favorable for the first two days of their journey, but Sol's generosity was wasted on the two princes, whose mood was miserable. Kal worried for Björn, the old hirdman who was like a second father to him, and he was annoyed with Maven for slowing them down by wanting to stop and rest more often than necessary. 

And he couldn’t stop thinking about Mare, and how drawn to her he was. He had tried to quell the desire and possessiveness that flared to life in him at the sight of her. Still, it remained a fact that he had looked murderous at anyone who was eyeing at her with the least bit of interest, on her first night in the hall. He’d told himself he was protecting her, laughable as that excuse might seem. 

Maven had not been wrong in his assumptions. Kal _had_ hoped to take Mare as his lover, and as soon as the crown was his, he would legitimize any children they might have. Being the King’s lover was a highly sought position, one that provided safety, comfort and, and… he stopped his musings dead right there.

Mare would not be his lover. Mare would marry his brother. He had to let it go. There would be others, he said to himself even as he held in his mount with a harder than necessary yank on the reins. The stallion snorted and flicked its ears back, nipping angrily in the air close to his boot.

Once again, Maven had fallen behind, not caring to urge on his equally tired horse. Kal bit back a curse and waited for his brother to catch up.

Maven's sullen mood was a mystery to him, but perhaps he had riding sores. He'd always been soft, and normally Kal wouldn't have minded adjusting their pace. Only this time every delay might mean the difference of life or death. He calculated another two days of riding if the weather held, then one more day to ready the ships with men and provisions, and one or two days of sailing to reach Haven, depending on the winds.

His plan failed on the third day, that started with a light fog and ended with the skies opening. It didn't take long before they were soaked. Through the roar of the pouring rain, Kal heard his brother's teeth clatter. They had just passed a woody ridge and ahead of them lay a valley of grasslands and scattered trees.

"Hrapp! Knut!" he called to the hirdmen accompanying them.

The two held their horses and Kal rode in between them, not surprised to find them soaked to the skin and looking every bit as miserable as he felt.

"We should stop," Kal said with some reluctance. "If this rain keeps up, and it looks like it will, we'll have trouble crossing the river down this valley anyways."

He did Maven the favor of not mentioning his weaker constitution. 

Knut promptly nodded in agreement, eager to get out of the rain. His younger companion was more sceptical.

"This rain isn't natural," said Hrapp and looked around uneasily. "I smell witchcraft."

Kal gave him a sceptical look. “All I smell is a normal, shitty autumn storm. If my memory serves me, there's a farmstead not far from here. There we can rest and get dry. We’ll continue as soon as the rain lets up."

No one said a word during their ride to the farm, and as if to make a point, the rain slammed into their backs with even more force, chasing them towards their safe haven.

Upon arriving at the farmstead, they dismounted and took their horses to the barn where a flock of sheep looked up in surprise. Maven stood shivering and blue-lipped, wrapped in his soaked cloak and Kal felt every bit the older brother as he practically herded him to the longhouse where the farmspeople lived.

The farmer and his household waited in silence as the royal visitors stomped into their home with puddles forming around their feet. As was typical, the people kept their cows and goats for milking in the south end, closest to the main door. Behind a divider was the family’s home. They were received well, not only because they were royalty but because of Norta’s custom of hospitality. Kal nonetheless thanked the farmer as he offered them his and his wife's bed, closest to the hearth. 

They began unwrapping their soaked layers, hanging it to dry on slats suspended in the ceiling. Care for weapons and armor took priority over food and rest, as their lives might depend on their function at any time. Chainmail was hurriedly dried with cloth and then greased, to prevent rust. Swords and knives were drawn from damp scabbards and polished to a shine. Hrapp had a bow which he examined closely, strung and flexed, before deciding that it seemed intact. The arrows were then sorted to separate those whose fletching would need straightening. 

Two half grown children looked at them curiously while they worked. An elderly, toothless woman with pale eyes spun yarn. The farmer’s wife got to work grinding flour in the house's northern section, where the food was stored, and the farmer braved the storm to get them more firewood. 

With both masters of the house away, Hrapp whispered. “No thralls, my lord.”

Kal looked at the children and asked a little too sternly, “Has anything happened here?”

They only stared at him with fear. He sighed and sat down to wait for the farmer. The old lady seemed deaf as well as blind, her hands continuously working the wool into an even thread which she bit by bit rolled up on the spindle. The movement was fascinating to watch, and he imagined for a moment the three Nornar at the root of Yggdrasil, spinning all of their fates in the same fashion.

Maven crawled into the farmer’s bed as soon as he’d gotten his clothes off, empty-eyed with exhaustion and cold. Kal remained at the fire with Hrapp and Knut. The farmer came back with the wood and a moment later, the wife with freshly ground rye and a slice of salted pork. As she began assembling a dough and set a pan on the fire, Kal turned to the farmer. He was still in his strong years, not a gray hair in his beard.

“I never asked for your name, good man.” 

“Toke,” said the farmer with a slight smile. “My wife’s name is Thora. And our children, Hild and Bore. That’s my mother, Jóri.”

“Where are your thralls?” Kal asked, to the point.

“We only had two, both dead with fever this year. One in spring, the other just one week ago. They are much missed.” There was genuine sadness in Toke’s voice. In these backwood lands, distinctions between free men and thralls were small in the matter of day to day chores. Here, thralls were valued and their work an important contribution.

Kal nodded in understanding. “I am sorry for your loss.”

No more was said, and all three of them ate Thora’s flatbread with salted pork with good appetite. Weak ale was offered and Kal thanked them again for their hospitality. Hrapp finished first and went out together with Toke to see to their horses. Knut said he was tired and promptly fell asleep by the fire, wrapped in his half-dried cloak. 

When Kal had eaten, he shook life into his brother. Maven peered up from under his nest of blankets and furs and he looked so pitiful Kal couldn’t help the sting of sympathy in his heart. His little brother, who he loved unconditionally, regardless of their differences.

“Mavey,” he said. “Eat some. It’s good.”

Maven sat up and accepted the wooden plate and cup of ale handed to him. 

“We’ll continue as soon as possible,” Kal said while Maven ate. “But not before our clothes are dry.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” his brother muttered darkly.

“No you don’t,” Kal said firmly. “And I’ll hear no more of it. We don’t know what the Lakelanders or the Red are up to and you have to make sure Arkehall is defended. You’re needed. Don’t go on thinking anything else.”

Maven smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Whatever you say, Kal.”

***

It took the entire afternoon and night before the storm let up. They said goodbye to Toke and his family, got on their horses and made good pace, vitalized by hearty meals and a night’s rest by a warm hearth. 

The landscape became rockier with sharp cliff formations, as the woody hills of the highlands slowly gave way to a rockier coastal landscape. That night they made camp under a cliff overhang, a spot Kal remembered well from previous excursions. The day’s travel had been easy and uneventful which put all of them, Maven included, in a good mood. 

In addition, Knut humored them with a retelling of how Thor acquired his hammer Mjölner. It was a long and intricate story, especially with Knut’s own imaginative expansion of the discussions between gods, giants and dwarves. 

As was often the case, the story started with Loki doing something untoward, this time by cutting off Sif’s, Thor’s wife’s, famously beautiful hair. Enraged, Thor prepares to break the trickster god’s neck. But Loki promises he’ll repay them manyfold, with not just hair for Sif, but gifts for Thor, Oden and Frey too. 

At the end of the story, Thor has his hammer, Oden his spear Gungnir, and Frey a magical sword that could fight on its own. And Sif is given new hair made of gold.

“I guess the gist of it,” Hrapp concluded sagely when Knut had finished, “is that even the most despicable of people have their uses.”

When the camp was ready and their horses and gear tended to, they drew straws on the order of the watch. Kal got the last. Pleased about the prospect of uninterrupted sleep, he wrapped himself in his cloak and blanket and closed his eyes. 

He awoke with a knife at his throat and arms pinned to the ground. At first and in his confusion, he wondered if Hrapp or Knut were trying for an especially stupid prank on him.

Within moments, the campsite was crowded with armed women and flickering torchlight. Women warriors existed in Norta, mostly among the high borns because of Queenstrial, but these shieldmaidens had the signature coaled eyes of Lakelanders, and their shields were painted white with red stripes. Vígharr the Red’s colors.

He looked around frantically for Maven, Hrapp or Knut. Between the feet of two shieldmaidens, he saw the slumped form of Knut with an arrow shaft protruding from his throat, his mouth agape in a silent scream.

“Did you get the other?” someone asked in singing Lakelander accent.

“Marv and Jós are hunting him,” someone else replied. “He won’t get far.”

Kal then spotted his brother, lying on his side, far too still. He screamed, fear ripping through him. “Maven!”

“Don’t worry, prince,” a woman looking down at him scoffed. “He’s just knocked out.”

Kal looked up at her, but didn’t see much in the backlight of torches except for the golden halo of her short yellow hair.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She tilted her head up. “I am your end. Slaver.”

“Wait, what?” He tried to sit up but was pushed back forcefully with the knife pressed hard against his jugular. 

She dismissed him, nodding at one of her shieldmaidens. The warrior flipped her axe so the hilt pointed downwards, and with a gleeful smirk, struck him on the side of his head.

When he woke up, he was alone in the dark, bound and cold. His hands were pulled around the trunk of a tree while he sat flat on the ground, making his position profoundly uncomfortable. Add to that, an aching head. 

_Slaver_ , the woman had called him. He recognized the term as one southerners used for thrall. But she and her shieldmaidens were clearly not southerners, but Lakelanders and Vígarr’s warriors. It seemed unthinkable that Vígharr would have men so far south as the coastlands.

He struggled up on his knees to relieve some of the strain on his arms. They had not placed any guard, not that he could see at least. 

“Hello? Anyone?”

“Yes,” said a man’s voice close by, almost sounding bored.

Kal craned his neck and saw a young man laying on the ground between two tree roots, just to his right. The man looked up at him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Quick as a cat, the man rolled to his feet and crouched down in front of him. There was a strange familiarity to his face that Kal couldn’t place.

“Comfortable?” His captor poked his ribs. 

“Not the slightest,” Kal replied. 

“Good.” The man’s eyes narrowed and he smiled, looking over his shoulder. “Farli!” he bellowed. “He’s awake!”

It took a moment, then the forest crunched as several people approached, led by the fair-haired woman. They carried torches, and now Kal got his first good look at the leader and quite possibly his executioner. She was tall, dressed in grey and brown, with hide armor and bracers. A white scar lept from her right cheekbone to the middle of her chin. Her blue eyes, circled by coal paint, glittered like icicles. 

Kal swallowed, for the first time admitting to himself that he was afraid. He summoned his courage, reminded that if it was his fate to die by her hand, all he could do was to face it bravely. 

The woman called Farli spoke, her voice snappish with a prominent Lakelander accent. “Finally. I had thought you’d be made out of tougher material, Kaloringr.”

Kal huffed and made a failed attempt to rise, sliding back on his knees. “Release me and I’ll gladly offer a demonstration. Speaking of which, where’s my sword?”

“Oh?” She raised a condescending brow, turned around and reached for something from one of her women. “You mean this?”

Kal saw the familiar gilded hilt of his sword, the one gifted to him on his day of adulthood not by his father, but Björn and the rest of his father’s hird. It was his most prized possession, second only to his father’s sword Eldrtung. Farli pulled the sword out of its scabbard and eyed its perfect edge.

“I could impale you against this tree. How long before anyone finds you, you think?”

Kal glowered at her. With a slow steadying breath, he looked down and away from her, unwilling to entertain her games any further. “You know what? Just get on with it. Kill me if that’s what you’re planning to do.”

“As much as I enjoy this little display of humility from you, prince Thorfinn,” Farli said, and the tip of his sword appeared in his view, moving under his chin and forcing him to look up. “You’ll die when I decide, not before. First, I’ll enjoy watching you break. The same way so many have been broken under the boot of your father and forefathers’ rule.”

The tip of his sword was cool and sharp, sending sparks through him with one single message; survive. 

“Where’s my brother?” he demanded.

Farli looked at him with indifference. “On his way north. To my father. He’s surprisingly cooperative.”

“You’re lying.”

She smirked, then nodded to her warriors, turned on her heel and walked off into the forest, still carrying his sword. Her pack of she-wolves followed, along with the young man who had been there when he woke up. Kal sank back on his heels. He did not doubt they had left someone to guard him, even if he couldn’t see them.

The night was cold. He tried to open and close his fists and move his legs to keep warm. Eventually, he fell asleep, and when he woke up the moon was on the other side of his tree, meaning most of the night had passed. He was cold as ice, fingers and toes numb.

A slight rustle made him start. 

“Shh,” said a soft voice. “Quiet. It’s me.”

“Maven?”

“I said quiet,” his brother whispered.

Kal felt the ropes slowly give way and when he could move his arms again, pain lanced through his shoulders after being stuck in the same awkward position for so long. He staggered to his feet, feeling weak and unsteady. Maven was promptly at his side to support him. The moonlight showed a fresh cut on his brother’s brow, but nothing else seemed amiss. 

They crept through the underbrush for a while until they reached a clearing with a small stream. There, Kal asked to stop to relieve himself. When he was done he splashed his hands and face in the stream. Despite the cold it felt good to clean himself. 

“Do you know what happened to Knut and Hrapp?” Maven asked. 

Kal knew he wasn’t supposed to mourn the fallen, but he did anyway. Knut would never gladden them again with his stories. “Knut is dead. I don’t know about Hrapp, but they said they were chasing someone. I doubt he would have just left. He would have made an attempt to help us, and from the looks of things, he failed. How did you get away?”

A low, bitter laugh escaped Maven. “I am good at pretending. They underestimated me.”

Kal sat back on his haunches, looking up at his brother. “As have I, it seems. How did you know where I was?”

“They said you were dead.” His voice wavered a little. “But I… I didn’t believe them. And if you really were dead, I had to know where and how. I backtracked and hid until I could sneak up on the one they had left guarding you, and-” He made a cutting motion in the air. 

Kal nodded, feeling pride and affection bloom in his chest. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

A true smile graced Maven’s face this time. “Guess that makes us even.”

It took a moment before Kal remembered that he’d gone back into the pass to get Maven and his horse, midst a rain of arrows. He smiled back.

They walked for the rest of the night and the following day, before coming out into the farmlands above Winter Bay. Essentially a fishing village that had outgrown itself, it was now a trading port to Piedmont in the south. In Kal’s great grandfather's time, raiding bands had left these shores to plunder Piedmont’s coasts, but eventually the scattered kingdoms of Piedmont had grown tired of ransom payments and looted stores. They joined under one rule and amassed organized coastal defences, making trade the preferable option.

This small town had been Mare’s entire world, Kal thought as they walked through the muddy streets, air dense with the smell of fish and rotting piles of offal over which birds, dogs and pigs fought. Charming.

At least it made the thought of staying the night to rest less tempting. They were both in agreement that they would press on, only stopping in Winter Bay to claim horses and perhaps a hot meal.

The great hall, situated on a low hill where the wind blew away most of the fish-smell, was a large but ill-tended structure with slightly sagging roof and a floor that hadn’t been swept in too many days. It’s owner was in a similar state of decline, Kal thought and tried to hide his contempt as he looked upon the bold, red-beared man who bore marks of little exercise and more mead than what was good for him. Could this truly be a relative to Mare?

“We need horses, and some food would be appreciated,” he declared efficiently after greeting the Jarl.

“Siv!” Hákon bellowed and a woman - his wife - appeared behind him with practiced submissiveness. 

“Husband,” she said low. 

“We’re housing the princes of Norta tonight-”

“No,” Kal held up a hand. “We have to move on.”

The Jarl’s expression fell. “My lords, it’s almost dark…”

“Insurgents attacked us and our hird in the forest,” Kal went on. “Trust me. Your energy is better spent preparing your town’s defences. I’m afraid times of unrest awaits us.”

Hákon looked stricken, but soon recovered. “Of course. Wife - get it done.”

She nodded and left, quiet as a mouse. Kal didn’t dare to think about what kind of life Mare and her family had had, if this was how Hákon treated his wife. It was a wonder she hadn’t divorced him. 

“So,” Hákon said with a speculating tone. “While we wait, congratulations are in order. I hear you’re both engaged. The stories travel wide about Tyrfingr’s heir.”

Kal nodded stiffly, glancing at Maven who luckily didn’t react. “They are true,” he said neutrally.

“Of course they are.” Hákon nodded thoughtfully and Kal didn’t like the look in his eye one bit. “I’d have loved to introduce you to my sister but she has unfortunately moved with her offspring to lands inherited by a relative of her husbands.”

Thanks to Mare’s quick thinking and boldness, Kal thought with warmth. He couldn’t stop himself. “Then I am glad for your sister’s good fortune.”

A tense silence settled between them, full of untold words and silent challenges. They could have left before any more was said, but then Hákon decided to overstep. 

“I had good fortune myself a few days ago. Sold a thrall whom some of my men were about to have their way with, after she had been caught with theft of three silvers. One gold I got for that lying, stealing wench. A very good deal indeed.”

Something red flashed across Kal’s vision and before he could think, his fist had connected with Hákon’s jaw. The jarl staggered back, but grinned victoriously, showing bloody teeth. He wasn’t fool enough to challenge Kal, who was his superior in rank as well as ability. But he had gotten what he wanted out of him, nonetheless. Around them several faces, some belonging to hirdmen, others servants, looked on in surprise. 

Kal could as well have shouted the lie about Mare’s identity to everyone in here. Taking a slow breath, he stepped back, still trembling with anger. 

Maven came to his rescue, glaring coldly at the jarl.

“My brother doesn’t care for those who torment the helpless for sport, Jarl,” his brother said, his face an impeccable mask of dignity. “And neither do I. You’d do best to remember this. We’ll take horses, but nothing more. We’re in a hurry, after all.”

When they left the hall, Kal muttered low, “Thanks.”

“That was careless, brother,” Maven said in an equally low voice. “But I was glad to see that red faced pig silenced.”

They walked to the stables in silent camaraderie, took a generous pick of two healthy geldings, and left Winter Bay at a brisk trot without another word to anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eldrtung = Fire tongue
> 
> Please don't hate me for Cal's characterization, remember that he is at the start of his journey and has a lot of growth ahead of him. I was looking forward to write him when he is still just privileged and clueless.


	6. Finding a way

Mare awoke on the first day of her new life with the hangover of the ages. Hardly leaving her bed for most of the morning, and spending the remainder of the day nursing a throbbing head, she silently vowed not to involve herself with mead again. Ever.

Ann had appeared some time after midday, and managed to coerce Mare to the bathing house. While ladling warm water over her shoulders, Ann told her that earlier that day, Evi had left with her father and brother on their ships, headed north for their jarldom.

“Thanks for small mercies,” Mare grumbled. Having one less person in her vicinity who clearly would prefer to see her dead couldn’t hurt. To her delight, Ann giggled.

At mid afternoon, Elara set Mare on a stool and herself in a chair opposite to her. The Queen studied her hands and nails with a disapproving frown, then turned her head one way, then the other. She even asked her to open her mouth to check if all her teeth were intact.

“Good,” she said after that initial physical examination. “Have you been with child?”

It was a fair question, Mare knew, considering her background but it still felt like an insult. She took a deep breath, pushing down the anger. “No.”

“Have you been with a man?”

“No.”

Elara lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “What can you do?”

Mare bit her lip. Steal. Sneak. Piss people off. Escape work.

“Well?” said the Queen. “Your master must have made you do _something_. If it is as you say, that you weren’t a whore to his men.”

Biting back another flare of anger, Mare said the only two acceptable things she could think of. “I’m good with pigs and I’m a fast runner.”

Now it was the Queen’s turn to take an excruciatingly long breath, eventually responding with a deadpan, “I see.”

Uncomfortable with the silence and what plans might be brewing it in, Mare suggested, “I’d like to learn how to ride.”

To that, the Queen actually softened somewhat “That can be arranged. You’ll also need to learn about managing a jarldom as well as a major household. When your husband is at arms, you’ll be in charge of, well…” She made a dismissive hand movement and a fleeting smile, “everything.”

Mare felt for a moment like the ground had opened beneath her. It hadn’t occurred to her that her future position would mean actual worldly responsibilities. The Queen went on, checking items off a mental list.

“I don’t expect you to learn any craft, no, that would be a waste of time I suspect. You might want to learn how to at least hold a sword properly in case you need to make an appearance at some point. Hm.” She looked to the ceiling, thrumming her fingers on the armrests, caring little for Mare’s slack jawed dismay. “And, of course, you mustn’t embarrass us at the Yule gathering. Which means you’ll learn about all Norta’s jarls as well as the name of every person of rank until then. It’s over two months until Yuletide. That should be manageable. Even for you.”

Mare was aware that as a wife to the Jarl, Siv had been responsible for the hosting of high born visitors, and was always a prominent person at all forms of gatherings, acting as a social glue where her husband could not. Was she expected to do _that_? She would frankly have been less nervous about learning to weave artful tapestries like the ones in the grand hall. 

But there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t give away more of an already deeply unflattering personal resumé, so she shut her mouth and hoped, desperately, that this wasn’t the impossible task it appeared to be. 

Despite Mare’s initial dislike for the woman, Elara had to be credited for a great deal of patience. Perhaps it was her lower than low expectations. Mare struggled all evening to learn the names of families and jarldoms. All of them were represented as colored tokens on a map that had been painted on a soft hide, which Elera had rolled out on the table.

The second day in Marveig Tyrfingr’s life started better. As Mare stepped outside, cautious but eager, she was met by a fair-haired, tall man who looked so much like Evi, and her equally intimidating older brother, that Mare at first balked at the sight of him. But he simply bowed his head and there was nothing threatening about his demeanor. 

“Leidulf Samosingr, my lady. I’ve been asked to teach you to ride a horse.”

“Samosingr, huh?” she said before she could stop herself. “You a relative of Evi’s?”

A slight blush spread on Leidulf’s cheeks. “Cousin, actually. Not from wedlock, in case you’re wondering.”

So he was a bastard. Mare bit back the acid remark ready at her tongue. She too was a jarl’s grandchild, just a less lucky one. Clearing her throat, she decided it was better to get down to business. “So where do we start?”

Leidulf showed Mare how to tack up and then held the stirrup and saddle as she clumsily sat up for the first time. He mounted his own horse and took her reins, leading her gelding with him as they went for a slow ride around the hillfort. Mare dug her fingers into the horse’s mane, feeling ridiculously excited considering they were just walking. But the change in perspective was giddying after being used to look up at the imposing animals and their riders. It was the most literal way possible to show her changed status.

“Relax,” Leidulf said with a kind smile. “You’re not gonna fall. And if you do, well, just get up again. It’s not Ginnungagap.”

Mare tried to at least give the impression of no longer holding on for dear life.

When they returned to the stable, her legs felt wobbly, her muscles cramping and trembling like she’d run the whole time. Leidulf explained that they’d do this every morning, and that he was sure she’d get the hang of it soon enough. He didn't seem to mind the task, and she was already looking forward to the next day. 

Mundi, the housekeeper, had a wife named Beijla to whom Mare was introduced next. She had the rough but firm dignity of a person who knew their place in the world. Her belly was huge with child, but she hardly seemed to notice it. It would be Beijla’s task to show Mare the practical side of housekeeping. The King’s home had over fifty thralls, Mare learned, and employed as many free men and women. Housing, clothing and feeding the royal family and their hird was no meager task. Each monday they made a full inventory of the stores, and the constant need for ale and mead meant brewing was always ongoing.

Mare tried not to wince each time Beilja berated a thrall for wrongdoings, remembering Larke’s cruel hands and the feel of the stick whenever she’d done something wrong. However, she began to notice, these thralls did not immediately cower the way she had been used to, but simply bowed their heads and apologized. For the most part, Beijla seemed content with this, at most offering a snappish word or two. The most Mare saw of physical punishment was a slap on the hand.

In a barely audible voice, Mare asked Beijla, “In Winter bay, the housekeeper whipped us more often than not, when we did something wrong.”

Then she tensed, realizing she was perhaps not supposed to speak of her past. Beijla seemed to consider this, as well. No doubt the woman had been told by the Queen the new truth all were meant to adhere to. 

Eventually, Beijla settled with a statement. “It appears you suffered a great injustice, growing up under the circumstances you did, my lady. Now, you need to forget the past, and learn to command others like you were commanded. It is your birthright. Thralls become what you turn them into. Healthy thralls are better than starved, broken ones. Treat them well and they’ll reward you with loyalty.”

Mare swallowed against sudden nausea. As Maven’s wife, _she_ would own thralls. As much as she realized that she’d have the opportunity to make their lives better than hers had been, it still made her feel sick.

When Ann combed and braided her hair that evening, Mare said over her shoulder. “Can I do your hair next?”

Ann’s hands stilled. “My lady…”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“I have to.”

Still, Ann allowed Mare to comb her hair and braid it to the best of her ability although that was hardly good. When she bound the knot that would hold the braid together, she thought about all the times their mother had braided hers and her sister’s hair. How she missed the little quiet moments with each other each evening. She hadn’t known to appreciate it until now. The longing for her family was like a punch in the gut. 

“What is it?” Ann asked, and Mare realized she was still holding the finished braid knot. 

“I miss my family,” Mare said honestly. “I just realized I don’t know when I’ll see them again.”

Ann turned around, looking serene and sharp in a way Mare had never seen before. The thrall girl placed her hand on Mare’s cheek. “Patience. There’s another day coming.”

“I will free you. I promise,” Mare blurted out. 

Ann’s face shifted into something softer, mournful. “I believe you.”

The next day, Mare asked the Queen if she could visit her family. Elara looked baffled, like the request was completely unreasonable. 

“Of course not.”

Mare had not expected her wish to be well received, but she was not prepared for such blunt refusal. Dumbfounded, she stammered, “But- I- They…”

Elara raised her delicate chin and smiled indulgently. “In time, perhaps. Now, continue.” She gestured to the map between them, handing the Haveningr marker to Mare.

Finally, surprise gave way to anger and Mare threw the marker back at the Queen. It was made of wood and hardly weighed anything. “If you want me to play the part you’ve given me, you better have something to show for your part of our bargain.”

The slap came without warning. Shocked, Mare slid from the chair down on the floor. The Queen had never beaten her before, and she had somehow thought that meant it wouldn’t happen. Mare closed her eyes, rubbing her aching cheek. Had she been stupid enough to believe she was _safe_ here? It was time she reassessed that notion. She was no safer here than she’d been under Hákon’s boot. 

“Get up,” the Queen said coolly, as if nothing particular had happened. She cleared the map of all markers. “Start over.”

Mare stared emptily at the map of Norta. She felt so powerless. In Winter Bay, at least she’d had the freedom to be herself. What she had now was a complete, crippling lack of self determination. Even her name had been taken from her.

She started over, placing the markers, reciting what she could remember about the jarldoms and families. But in reality, half of her mind was preoccupied with possible ways to escape Arkehall, and find her family.

***

Days passed and Mare didn’t mention her family again. She felt more and more comfortable riding Grå, the gentle old gelding Leidulf had given to her. She asked if they could do longer outings but Leidulf was unwilling to take her outside of town. Mare begged and pleaded, pointing to the grassy fields, and eventually, he relented.

As soon as they were out, Mare ‘fell’ off Grå. She made a great show of seeming disgruntled, brushing off dirt and swearing. As soon as Leidulf wasn’t watching, she took out a sharp twig which she had hidden under her saddlecloth, and whipped the hirdman’s mare hard on her belly, where it would hurt the most. The horse reared and bucked, and bolted, giving Mare time to climb back on Grå, and kick him into a gallop in the direction of Winter bay. 

Having never galloped before, Mare could do nothing but hold on for dear life as the gelding thundered on. At the edge of the forest, a startled bird flew from a bush, and Grå made a sharp leap sideways before continuing. Unfortunately without Mare, who lost her grip and fell hard on the ground.

“Ugh,” she groaned and rubbed her sore elbow and bottom. “Coward.” She glared after the horse’s disappearing form, then back towards Arkehall where Leidulf was already galloping towards her.

“Odin’s eye!” she cursed and began running, taking a sharp turn from the path and into the forest. Maybe she could lose him in the woods.

Twigs whipped against her body and branches caught in her skirt as Mare barged through the underbrush. It occurred to her that she might lose herself as well as her pursuer in the forest, but she quickly dismissed that notion. One thing at a time. First, escape. Pig herding had made her a decent pathfinder and tracker. She would be fine, so long as she got away to start with. 

She could hear Leidulf shout her false name far behind her, but the sound became more and more distant. When all she could hear was the sound of her lungs furious work, and the odd chirp of a bird and wind rustling naked tree branches, she stopped to catch her breath, smiling. Fast runner, indeed.

Now, she only had to figure out where she was. The sky was overcast, meaning the sun would offer little guidance. Mare decided she should look for high ground, and started walking in the direction of what looked to be a high tree.

The forest was sparse, mostly old birch and the odd oak crammed in between the white, naked tree trunks, the ground covered in a blanket of yellow and brown leaves, interrupted by tufts of withered grass. As she walked, a mist began forming despite the fact that it was nearing midday. Suddenly her way was blocked by a wall of thick old firs. Realizing she must have gone the wrong way, Mare turned around to backtrack, but was only met by more firs, crowding her as if hunting a prey. The fog grew denser, seeming to rise from the earth itself. Fear dug cold fingers into her.

Mare had heard the stories, as all children did, of openings between Manheim and the underworld, where invisible hands reached up to grab at the living. Of witches and trolls and giants who waited at the fringes of mankind’s domain to claim those foolhardy enough to stray far from home. And of marshlands, whose dark water held more horrors than you could imagine, and should better be left alone. 

Mare started walking, fast, pushing branches aside and scraping her arms and fingers on the unforgiving wood. Then her foot sank into soft wet ground. She stopped, horrified to realize that whatever trap she’d walked into, offering an opening here, a way through there, had worked.

Slowly lifting her gaze, she looked at an eerily silent bog. Her breath hitched and she took a step back, instinctively searching for dry ground, a way out. The forest seemed to form a solid wall behind her, the firs suddenly tick and impenetrable. 

“No!” she cried, desperate. “No, no!”

More water seeped from the earth, up around her feet and ankles as she sank deeper, holding her tight in its grasp. The mist densened above the murky waters, forming a shapeless figure, something like a head at its top, dragging trails of mist around itself as if attached to the ground. 

Mare let out a horrified whimper as it began to move towards her. She blinked again and again. She pinched her arm. Wake up. Please.

The figure glided between floating tussocks and dead tree trunks with eerie silence, until it hovered before Mare. A trail of mist reached out like an arm to touch her cheek. A deep chill spread inside her, one that had nothing to do with the cold dampness of the bog. Its voice was a sound but also not a sound, the words coming from far away. It wasn’t male or female. It was as if the earth itself spoke, echoing from the depth of the dark waters beneath her.

_“I mean you no harm, Mare Runadottr.”_

Mare gave a strangled squeak. “What?”

_“You must listen. You cannot trust the Queen.”_

It took a moment before the words registered, and when they did, something in Mare snapped, and she laughed, a short, nervous bark. “Wow, really? I need no spirit to tell me _that_.”

A tremble passed through the apparition. _“There is more. You must awaken, and soon. Find Jórheid. He will guide you on your journey.”_

“Journey?” she asked bewilderedly. “To where?”

 _“Find Jórheid,”_ the spirit repeated, sounding more urgent now.

Mare yanked at her feet, but they remained stuck. “Alright, alright! I get it. I will. Just... let me go.” 

_“The bog will release you. It’s toll is already paid.”_ The spirit’s form began to dissolve. 

Mare yanked again, and this time her foot came loose. She looked up just as the final remains of mist disappeared and the air cleared. “Wait!” she called out. “What are you?”

An earthy whisper reverberated through the waters. _“A memory.”_

Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, Mare half stumbled, half crawled, onto dry land. She felt drained. Instinct warned her that she had to get up and keep moving. But the exhaustion was impossible to fight, and she closed her eyes only to open them at what seemed a moment later. Only, the sky was darkening and the forest was notably colder. 

Did the entire day just pass? Mare rose, feeling stiff, thirsty and hungry. She was still at the edge of the bog, but there was nothing menacing about the place, this time. The firs willingly let her pass, just ordinary trees now. She walked up a long slope until she was back in the same forest as before. She spotted the high tree she’d chosen as her landmark, but before she reached it, she heard the sound of hoofbeats, meaning she was already close to a road.

She rushed towards the sound, struggling through thickets and climbing over dead wood. Too late did she see the steep slope, made a wrong step and tumbled over roots and rocks until she landed on moist leaves at the bottom. She grabbed her ankle, which hurt like it had been speared on hot iron. 

“Mare!” she heard a man call, followed by the sound of feet hitting the ground. "Is that you?" 

Kal. An arm around her shoulders, helping her sit up. He was here? How?

"Mmmpph..." she gritted against the pain. “My foot. I think I sprained it.”

“What are you doing out here?” he asked as he helped her stand up on one leg. 

He wasn’t alone, she realized as she met Maven’s blue stare. The younger prince looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes, hair and clothes tousled and matted with travel grime. 

She whined again as blood rushed to her ankle, sending pain up her leg in throbbing pulses. “Uhg… I wanted to see my family.” She took a hobbling step forward, leaning heavily on Kal. “Which meant I had to escape from your mother.”

She felt him tense beside her. “Elara isn’t my mother.”

“No?” Mare looked up at Maven, who bore an unmistakable likeness to the Queen. Half-brothers, then. Funny that no one seemed interested in informing her about these things. One could almost think they all wanted her to make an idiot of herself.

“What happened to you two?” she asked. “Where are all the others?”

“Long story.” Kal sighed, deep weariness showing. He nodded towards his brother. “Maven will take you back. I have to ride ahead.” 

With giddying ease, he lifted her by the waist and helped her into the saddle in front of Maven, who moved backwards as far as he could to free up space. It was a tight fit, but she and Maven were both lean.

“See you back home,” Kal said with a tight nod, jumped back on his horse, and was off at a gallop in an instant.

A long silence followed his departure, during which Mare felt Maven slowly relax against her, tentatively closing the gap between their bodies. Eventually, Maven reached one hand on each side of her to take the reins, and urged the horse into a slow walk. 

“Is it alright?” he said quietly, as gentle as last time. The memory made her cringe at first, then blush furiously. “The foot, I mean,” he corrected hastily. 

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt as bad anymore.”

“Good.”

They rode in silence for a while. She was much further from Arkehall than what seemed possible. She’d never be able to explain what happened to her in the forest, not to herself and much less to anyone else. Night descended fast but the moon was full and the sky clear, offering them ample light. 

“What happened?” she asked. “Things didn’t go as planned, I take it?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “We were… attacked. They killed some of our men. Kal was asked to return and get the fleet to Haven.”

Haven was Norta’s northernmost port to the open sea, her memory from the Queen’s lessons supplied. It was located at the south side of the inlet to the brackish sea between Norta an the Lakelands. “Haven has a big fleet. You’re going against the Lakelands then?”

His reply was darky amused. “I see my mother has kept you busy. And yes. Kal and father will.”

“Who is Kal’s mother?”

Maven didn’t answer immediately. “I can’t tell you much I’m afraid. No one speaks of Kori. She died before I was born.”

“Did she die in childbirth?”

“No.”

She sensed she wouldn’t get more out of him on the subject. Still, she preferred to keep talking, anything to keep her attention from the warmth between their bodies as they moved with the horse’s step. While she thought of something else to ask him, Maven surprised her, saying,

“You look well… I mean,” he amended, “aside from the foot. The twigs are a nice touch.”

Mare grabbed at her hair, once a braid now a bird’s nest, noting that indeed she had a few twigs and leaves in it. She half turned to him, frowning at his remark, and saw him smile despite his apparent weariness. A bit of dried dirt clung to a few strands of his hair. She broke it off, crumbling it in her hand, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Some new regalia I earned on the road,” he joked, but it was half-hearted, weighed down with something. He turned his gaze to the moonlit path ahead of them.

On a whim, she asked, “Who is Jórheid?”

Maven tensed a little. “The first of the three goði at the temple. You’ve met him. At Queenstrial.”

The image of the red stained goði bringing her blood to his tongue made her shiver. “Your mother called him ergi,” she ventured.

“He has been called far worse things than ergi.”

“I thought he was respected.”

“Feared, more like,” Maven scoffed. “When did you hear his name?”

Mare considered her answer for a moment. Betrothed or not, Maven was as much a stranger to her as the Queen. “I, um... just heard it mentioned.”

“Well, be careful with him. He is close to a person I’d rather not have you involved with. A witch. Though she’s somehow allowed to remain at the temple despite her misdeeds.”

A chill passed through her. Witches called on dark forces and malevolent gods, Surt and Loki, and other harbingers of Ragnarok. Mare wondered what power had taken hold of her in the forest, and somehow led her half a day’s travel from Arkehall to exactly the place where the princes passed on their way home. There was no way for her to tell, and until she knew, she’d better keep such things to herself.

“I’ll be careful.”

He seemed content with that and they lapsed into another silence. Mare found herself cradled into a half-slumber, leaning the side of her head against Maven’s shoulder. She recalled his smell on the evening of their betrothal, one of fresh sweat that belied his composed exterior. Now he smelled pleasantly of earth and wool and leather.

It was a completely unreal notion that this man, this _prince_ , would be her husband. Mare had never considered marriage for herself. Now she would not just be married, but also mistress of a jarl’s household. 

And, she balked, she would bear children. Maven’s children.

She’d seen weddings before. Three days was not an uncommon length to celebrate the union of two families. On the first night, the couple would be led to their bedchamber, undressed before six witnesses and go to bed together, after which they were thankfully left alone - but no less expected to complete the act of marriage.

A cord of anxiousness wound itself around her chest. It wasn’t that she didn’t know _how_ to bed a man; she wasn’t a child, she’d lived in one room with her parents her whole life, and mead and ale were responsible for more than a few public couplings in the jarl’s hall. Mare had sometimes considered asking Kiúli, if only to get it over with. It was easy enough to imagine a life with him since he sometimes looked at her with interest beyond mere friendliness. But thoughts of any future children, inevitably born into thralldom, always put a quick end to such fantasies. Until this day, she hadn’t even kissed anyone, fearing a kiss might lead to other things with more severe consequences.

Maven’s warm body behind her was a firm reminder that this would change, and soon. 

Trying to marshall her voice into something like a neutral tone, she asked, “Do you know when your parents wish to wed us?”

If she wasn’t entirely mistaken, Maven had similar difficulties keeping his voice even. “After the spring blodt. It’s tradition. Supposed to… um…” He hesitated, his voice hushed with embarrassment, “...help things along.”

Mare smiled though Maven couldn’t see it. His prudish attitude was actually quite endearing. It also relieved a little of her anxiousness, knowing that once again, she was not the only one feeling trepidation.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the reins. “Your family is not in Winter Bay anymore, by the way. They have their own land now. You needn't worry about them.”

I don’t, Mare wanted to bite back. I miss them. I need them. “Glad to know your father keeps his word.”

“He always does,” Maven replied, but it didn’t sound like he thought it a good thing. “Also be careful who you speak to about your family. Don’t think for a moment that my father let them live as a favor to _you_.”

She hadn’t even thought it through, she realized with a sinking feeling. What might have happened if she had succeeded in getting to Winter bay, found them there and made it completely public who she was and where she came from? Again she was reminded that she was balancing on a knife’s edge.

She turned to look at Maven, but he seemed deep in thought, his gaze far away, a furrow between his eyebrows. When he noticed her looking at him, his expression softened. 

“You can rest if you want,” he said. “We still have some way to go.”

Thankful for the offer, she closed her eyes and let herself fall back against him, lulled by the rhythm of the horse. Maven rested his cheek against her head. The simple intimacy spread warmth inside her, soothing her bereftness, making her forget the pain in her ankle. 

It felt good, she had to admit, not to be alone.


End file.
